Blood Brothers
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: "Will you, Narcissa, raise our son to the very best of your abilities?" Lily asked, tears streaming down her face. "I will," she said hoarsely. A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from James's wand and wound itself around the women's hands. HD Twinfic
1. Prologue

**A.N.**: I'm bored and ill and really pissed off because college was closed today due to snow and I even _did_ my coursework! So this was something I wrote about midnight last night! This is a prologue, but reviews are definitely welcome for future plotlines, etc. :D

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"I'm begging you! From a mother to a mother, _please_." Tears splashed over the exquisite high cheekbones, pooling at the corners of the lovely mouth turned down with desperation. Huge topaz eyes glistened, wide and imploring, as she knelt at Lily's feet, hands clasped to stop their trembling. "He thinks it is _you_. He believes you to be the parents of the child who will bring his downfall. You know this! You cannot possibly comprehend the levels he will go to stop that from happening. Born to parents who have thrice defied the Dark Lord. Let me take the younger—I will protect him. No one knows that our own child is—I will take an Unbreakable Oath to protect him."

Lily and James exchanged stricken looks. Yes, they had known Voldemort believed their Harry—their first-born—was the key to his undoing. And they knew to what depths Voldemort would go to stop threats affecting him—he'd just taken the McKinnon family, and Dorcas. Gideon and Fabian…they'd gone down like heroes. Martyrs. And here knelt Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, as a suppliant at a great altar, praying they would allow her to take their youngest child, the littler twin. Offering to protect him in a way they knew they could not. Because once Voldemort set his mind on something, there was no going back. They had known the costs of crossing Voldemort in his war long before they had first denied his invitation to join him.

"What happened to your child?" James asked hoarsely. Upstairs, one of the twins mewled softly. They were five months old, utterly indecipherable except the eyes. Harry had Lily's exquisite emerald-eyes. His twin had stunning hazel eyes, the colour of James's and the shape of Lily's. Narcissa's tears redoubled and her back curved to a perfect C as she sobbed brokenly.

"He died," she choked, her slender body shuddering. "He was ill. Dragon Pox." Lily pressed trembling fingers to her lips, tears splashing down her face at the thought of losing a child. Whether by Voldemort or by Narcissa here, they were going to lose one son anyway. James had made up his mind. He would do anything to protect his family. _Anything_, including giving over a cherished little boy to an enemy. _The closer he is to danger, the farther he is from harm_, he rationalised. If rationality could really be called upon in such a situation. He glanced at Lily. Her lip was trembling and she was silently shaking her head, but after a tiny sob escaped her lips she set her jaw and nodded, squeezing fresh hot tears from her stunning emerald eyes.

To save his life they would sacrifice him. He gripped Lily's upper-arm for a second before leaving the drawing-room of what had been his family's ancestral manor-house and took the split-staircase slowly. The mewling continued; it was a happy gurgling, completely contrasting the atmosphere in the rest of the house. The nursery was his favourite room; his boys' room. Sirius had charmed the constellations onto the midnight-blue ceiling; some thought the dark colour was oppressive, but the brightest star in the heavens shone brilliantly as the loveliest nightlight. Their godfather, Sirius the Dog Star, watched over them as they slept. Tears irritated James's nose and he hastily pushed them away from his face with the sleeve of his jumper. Christmas meant bitterly cold nights and fresh days with snow coating the grounds, hot mulled-cider and presents; they'd had visitors every day this week, Sirius mostly, and Remus, only once Peter had come by and James thought he had looked ill.

Albus had come by yesterday. He loved those boys. He'd given Harry a little plush golden snitch, the intricate details that would have been etched on the real thing, like the collection of the ones James had stolen at school and strung into a mobile above the cot as soon as they realised Lily was pregnant, embroidered with golden thread that seemed to glow in the darkness, giving the boys an extra nightlight. And Henry he'd given a little plush dragon that roared realistically when he squeezed it. Harry and Henry both lay facing each other, and not because Lily had put them to bed that way; every morning they were lying like this. They were the first things they saw in the morning before they fed them. They hadn't been separated for a day since they were born. Sirius had wanted to take Henry, for the same reason that Narcissa Malfoy was offering to: he would take it as a personal insult if he knew they had chosen her over him. But he had asked just after the twins were born. Things were different then. Sirius couldn't even tie his own shoelaces! How was he going to raise a baby? James smiled before it was wiped completely off his face with a silent sob that saw him crumple, clutching the side of the cot for support as his knees buckled. He stared through bleary eyes—and glasses fogging up—at his baby boys. Henry was awake and beaming at the light glinting off the snitches, a tiny little hand raised towards them, kicking his little legs happily. The twins were identical, but James knew them apart; Harry was very quiet, and rarely cried out except for when Henry was out of his sights. Henry was much more verbal, cooing at Lily or giggling in James's arms, humming as he lay beside Harry, smiling toothlessly, looking a lot like Tom the barman at the Leaky Cauldron, his eyes twinkling as they reflected the hundreds of jewel-bright pinpricks of light that represented the stars.

"Darling." James sniffed hastily, wiping his eyes hurriedly before Lily could see him crying. Because if she saw, they'd both be lost.

"I need to feed him, James," Lily said softly, and James nodded, his face crumpling with anguish as he reached into the cot for the still-smiling Henry, who clutched his little dragon, wrapped in a blanket and tucked inside a snitch-printed fleece bodysuit. He hummed happily as he was transferred to Lily in the squashy rocking armchair, and Lily freed her breast and fed him, her great fiery sheet of hair falling over her face and shielding the tears James knew were falling from her eyes. As soon as Henry had enough, and they always knew because he just conked right off to sleep, Lily wrapped him up tight in his blanket, whispered something into his ear as they walked downstairs, and James checked the nightlight before closing the door on Harry in the nursery.

"Where's your wand, James?" Lily asked throatily. James tugged his wand out of his back-pocket and sighed as they entered the drawing-room: Narcissa pulled herself off the floor, her still-sopping cheeks touched with a gentle flush of colour as her eyes softened and she reached for Henry. Lily held onto him steadfastly, and glancing at James she nodded slightly; she knew what she had to give first. She and Lily knelt; they clasped hands, Henry resting peacefully in Lily's arm, and James stood before them.

"Will you, Narcissa, raise our son, Henry, to the very best of your abilities?" Lily asked, tears streaming down her face. Narcissa was likewise tearing up again.

"I will," she said hoarsely. A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from James's wand and wound itself around the women's hands like a red-hot wire.

"And will you, to the very best of your ability, protect him from harm?" A second tongue of flame encircled their wrists.

"And will you love him?" Lily beseeched hurriedly, leaning forward, her brilliant emerald-green eyes awash with salty tears that streamed down her cheeks onto Henry's blanket.

"I will. As if he were my own son," Narcissa promised, her voice throaty and heartfelt. A third tongue of flame shot from James's wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly around their clasped hands, like a rope, like a red-hot shackle binding Narcissa to her word.

So Henry passed out of their home, out of their lives, and it wasn't until the day eleven-year-old Harry Potter went to buy his first pair of brand-new Hogwarts robes from Madam Malkin's that he met his blood-brother.

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**A.N.**: Reviews are very welcome :D

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	2. Sixteen Years Later

**A.N.**: Okay, two put my two-knuts in about the boys, because of the plot-twists and such, my cast for the characters of Draco and Harry are both Garrett Hedlund, however Harry is to be played by a Garrett Hedlund with dark artistically-tousled hair, wearing a beaten-up old leather bomber-jacket, dark jeans and a white t-shirt, while Draco is to be played by GH with shorter blonde hair combed back (think at _Hustle & Flow_ premiere). In case you didn't know, I am a complete Garrett Hedlund groupie, and if he ever sets foot on English soil to my knowledge, I will not cease to hesitate in hunting him down and chaining him to my bed… Anyway, onwards—Enjoy!

**A.N.2**: Okay, because I've spent the past two days stuck at home because of the snow, and because yesterday I came down with conjunctivitis on top of my cold, this is eight Word Document pages long, so I apologise for that, I just can't find a place to split it into two! And, because I have conjunctivitis and it's highly contagious amongst dense populations of sixth-form college students, I will be at home for a little while (secretly waves little flag of joy), so entertain me with some reviews, Goddamnit!

**Disclaimer**: Oh yeah. I should probably mention I do not own Harry, Draco, Sirius (who's alive and I'll explain in a bit), Narcissa, Tonks, Remus…although I'd have all the male characters, like GH, chained to various pieces of furniture in my room! Anything you recognise is not mine!

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"Mother I _won't_ go!" Draco declared, resisting the supple, slender white fingers clamped like a vice around his wrist. Her fingernails dug through her leather gloves into the thick wool of his smart coat his mother had tossed to him half an hour ago, waking him rudely from his late-afternoon nap with a cold washcloth, declaring they were leaving the house immediately and not coming back. His bedroom, and every other room he passed as he struggled to pull jeans on over his long-johns and thermal socks as his mother tugged him to the front-door, had been stripped of possessions and Draco had no clue what was going on until his mother had Apparated them to London, where everything was encrusted with a layer of glittering brilliant-white snow, even more brilliant because of the darkness settling in the sky above them.

Now she whirled around, the slim-fitting Muggle ladies' coat of black silk rustling softly in the stillness off this wintry suburban area, and struck him across the face. Draco clamped his hand over his face, utterly shocked by the sting of his mother's cold leather glove as much as the very basic fact that she had _struck him_. His mother had never struck him, never; Father had always been the one to inflict punishments. Mother could never bring herself to lay a hand against him.

"This is not a game," she said quietly, her words measured, but with a cutting undercurrent of fear and at the same time enormous strength. "Our situation is precarious." Draco hung his head. Yes, he knew he was in trouble. _Big trouble_, because as soon as May the fifth came around, he would have to surrender everything to the Dark Lord. His mother had given him the last six months, claiming he would take the Mark when he came of-age. Draco should have known she would do anything—_anything_—to prevent that from happening.

"Why _there_? Why to _him_?" Draco asked quietly. He could have understood his mother going to Dumbledore; after all, he'd made promises before that Draco had heard about through his mother, offering his protection. But not Harry Potter. What could a boy only three months Draco's junior do to help them? Now his mother cupped his face with the utmost tenderness, her lovely topaz eyes sweeping over his face as if wanting to memorise every detail of it even though she already knew the place of every eyelash, the little mark in his right cheek close to his ear when he'd had chicken-pox; she knew where the dimple rose when he really _smiled_ when he was happy. Because only she had ever seen it. She knew when he set his jaw and refused to make eye-contact he was trying his best not to cry.

Because he had to be strong for her, now, because Father wasn't around. _Father isn't here_, he thought again, examining his mother's face. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and if there was anything wrong with that, then call in Dr Freud. He had his mother all to himself now; no Father to ruin their relationship. Draco had only ever loved his mother. His father could burn in hell for eternity—if indeed Draco had actually believed in heaven and hell, because he didn't—if only his mother was safe from harm, and for once in her life knew what it was like to love without restraint. Fear of reprisal.

"Your father has left us _nothing_ but a bad legacy, a legacy you will _not_ grow up to live out, I can promise you that this moment!" his mother said, beginning softly but her words ended with sharp decisiveness. "I will take you to the Order and there, there are some things which must be discussed."

"Like what things?" Draco asked, hurrying to keep up with his mother's determined strides. He'd never seen her in anything but lovely witch's robes; he didn't even know she had legs, but the cut of her smart navy pinstripe trousers showed them off with distinction, her suit-jacket under her coat was fitted and cinched in at her extraordinarily narrow waist, throwing her bust and slim shoulders into sharp relief. She had an exquisite posture; shoulders thrown back, head held high, and more than one passer-by stared more at her extraordinary face than at the boy she was tugging along behind her like a misbehaving toddler out of a sweet-shop. _She needs to buy one of those Muggle toddler-leashes_, he thought resentfully, trudging along wilfully behind her, _so she can always yank me back when I step too far out of her comfort-zone_. He didn't particularly resent her being so protective of him; her cosseting him had been a key reason they were so close, something his relationship with his father had never seemed to obtain.

He just wasn't happy when his nap had been interrupted. It was the first day of Christmas-holidays, and a Saturday no less: he was entitled to eat so many mince-pies that he felt ill, had to lie down, and didn't get up for another three hours, especially since Mother never cut the Christmas cake before Christmas day after dinner. Christmas was a time of overindulgence and horrific hangovers.

And his mother ignoring his question grated. He wasn't used to being ignored, much less by his own mother. She was always the first to scoop him into her arms to kiss any hurt, pet his hair away from his forehead when he was upset, sit by his side hour by hour, reading him story after story whenever he was ill during his childhood, sending him homemade treats every week to Hogwarts with little notes slipped into the pastries, just little, but constant, reminders of how much she loved him. And how much he missed her when he was away. Two letters every week, extra pocket money when he did exceptionally well (though never above Hermione Granger's standard of excellence), supportive notes when he didn't do so well, presents on holidays and always visiting him on Hogsmeade weekends for hot-chocolate at Madam Puddifoot's. His mother was his best-friend, and he had no problem with that.

He followed, stomping, resisting his mother's incessant tugging on his arm for as long as her patience would allow her to put up with it, and fixed with a steely glint in her eyes not unlike Professor McGonagall, Draco lowered his eyes to floor shame-facedly. He realised whatever she was doing—going against her husband, his father, against _him_—was highly lucrative and dangerous to the both of them and whoever else it involved, and him behaving like a spoilt brat wasn't helping. If he only knew where they were _going_—his mother stopped in between two houses, oddly numbered 11 and 13.

_Where's number 12?_ he thought, frowning, and his mother clanged on the gate that led absolutely nowhere, announcing their presence. _What the hell are we doing _here_ in the middle of a Muggle cul-de-sac_? Everything was dirty, sullied, and Draco wrinkled his nose distastefully as he glanced around at the broken-down buildings that might once have been grand, Georgian stately homes, residences of the elite during the Season, while they retired to their country estates for the shooting.

"Draco, read this piece of paper," his mother said quietly, passing him a sliver of parchment with elegant, loopy handwriting across it. "_Not_ aloud." Draco closed his mouth and frowned at the piece of paper: _The location of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number 12 Grimmauld Place_.

"Have you got it memorised?" his mother asked, and Draco frowned, nodding. She took the piece of parchment, glanced around and tapped it with the tip of her silver-birch wand, so that it ignited and fell in charred wisps to the snowy ground. Draco jumped as he glanced back at the houses. Number 12 had mysteriously just _appeared_ out of nowhere. It looked older than the other houses, but someone had gone to a lot of pains to renovate the exterior, paint it a lovely clean cream, and decorate every window from inside with garlands and an enormous Christmas tree in an upstairs window, and a beautiful big wreath on the front-door, which had been freshly painted crimson. Warmth and ambiance emanated from this house, and Draco contrasted it with his own stark home. Despite his mother's love of Christmas—birthdays and holidays, really; she always loved a party—she hadn't decorated the house this year, and it looked as stark and cold as the white-marble in the hallway felt.

His mother was already halfway down the snowy garden path to the stoop, which consisted of three icy steps, and she stood in her high-heeled black leather knee-length boots, knocking politely on the front-door.

Draco glanced around the garden as he followed his mother's footprints, closing the gate behind him. Someone had made a sequence of snowmen; an alien-snowman with two carrot noses and three coal eyes wiggled its arms around in the gentle breeze, another had been built around the new oak so that it appeared to have been speared to death, another was up to its nose in snow, drowning, a fourth had its head in its hands, mouth wide and appeared to be screaming, and the last had been splattered in two outstretched on the ground by a baby-snowman sitting on a sled. Oh—no, by corner, near the gate into the back-garden, was another snowman, coal-mouth turned down in a grimace, a hot-water bottle on top of his head.

"Remember, Draco, please be really gentle," his mother said softly, adjusting the collar of his coat. "_Please_, no fighting, and remember your manners." The front-door burst open, and Draco jumped: a young woman with the most vibrant pink hair he had ever seen stuck her head outside, looked up to the heavens, from which feather-light snowflakes were falling, gasped, and shouted; "_IT'S SNOWING AGAIN_!!!" before slamming the door shut abruptly on them. Draco glanced at his mother, whose expression was stunned, and the door opened again.

"Well, well, well," a deep, gravelly voice said tauntingly, and a tall, dark and handsome man in his mid-thirties stood draped in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, smirking down. Behind his arms, though, Draco could see he was wearing a knitted sweater not unlike those he saw the Weasley clan wearing at Christmastime. But his jumper had snowflakes knitted into the cashmere, and because it was magically-made, the snowflakes constantly fell from the top band of horizontal stripes to the bottom band. With the deep midnight-blue jumper, and the dark hair that fell with an indolent elegance to the man's shoulders and into lovely grey eyes wreathed with dark lashes, he was the picture of tall, dark and handsome. _Well, except maybe the snowflakes_, Draco thought.

"Sirius. I see you've invested in some rejuvenation drafts."

"Yes, but they're not as good as _yours_," 'Sirius' remarked, giving Narcissa a condescending smirk. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to—"

"Beg? Grovelling always was your strongest talent."

"And yours is…My brain is shooting a blank."

"And here I thought it was Lucius who shot blanks," Sirius remarked, still smirking. Draco glanced from his handsome face to his mother; he expected to see her downright angry, at least indignant. But a smile—a real, genuine, toothy _grin_—had spread across her exquisite face, and she strode forward, throwing herself into the strong arms that wrapped around her slender waist and hoisted her into the air.

"You look wonderful, Sirius," his mother hummed into Sirius Black's shoulder.

"You too," Sirius smirked. His eyes trailed with lazy indifference over Draco.

"Why has that snowman got a hot-water bottle on top of his head?" Draco asked curiously, glancing at the snowman again.

"Suicide," Sirius sighed, shaking his head solemnly, though his eyes glittered with mirth. "You know how hard the holidays can be on some people." Draco couldn't help his lips twitching amusedly. "Who's this?"

"This…is Henry." Draco barely heard his mother's words; he lip-read, more than anything, but he caught it, and was completely thrown off. _Huh? _Was it some code, a password to access the Order of the Phoenix headquarters? Sirius Black, however, seemed to take a much more profound reading from her words and stared with an open mouth and wide eyes at Narcissa.

"Come inside," he said finally, turning and walking into the house. Narcissa waited on the top step for Draco. He glanced over the façade of the house, frowning, before glancing at his mother, who waved him over with a gentle, coaxing smile.

"What's 'Henry'?" he asked immediately, but his mother just gave him another tiny smile and gestured him inside the house before her. He entered the house.

The grand hallway looked as if renovation had finished just yesterday, yet everything had that innate _homey _feel to it with the warm colours. Brand-new burgundy-red silk wallpaper lined the walls, the skirting-boards and cornices had been freshly painted, the sweeping side-staircase had been freshly sanded and varnished, the few chairs were antiques but newly-upholstered. An old carpet seemed to have been tugged up, revealing the wonderful gleaming floorboards beneath, protected by a warm rug. Red and gold. _Gryffindor_, Draco thought. _Of course…_ And everything had been decorated especially for Christmas; garlands decorated with deep burgundy-red amaryllis and blood-red roses and gold bows and brilliant gold bubbles like those in the ceiling of St Mungo's were wound around the banister of the sweeping staircase up to the second-floor gallery, a spread with lit candles was placed atop the vertical piano against the back wall, mistletoe hung in every doorway, and the base of every candelabra was wreathed with lilies. The entire house smelled of cinnamon and _Christmas_. Mulled-wine and sweet-almonds, mince-pies and cooking meat all mingled in the air and Draco felt instantly warm and comfortable, as if being home again for the first time in sixteen years. Malfoy Manor never felt like this. He was always cold, uncomfortable, and wary in that place.

"I love what you've done with this place, Sirius," his mother remarked. Then Draco realised—_this_ was the house where his mother had grown up. His aunt Bellatrix (he shivered, and masked the shudder of his spine rubbing his arm absent-mindedly), the aunt Andromeda he had never met, and this man's deceased but coveted younger-brother Regulus had all grown up here under the tutelage of a governess before starting Hogwarts. Their sets of parents had spent time in various country residences or travelling the world's most luxurious pureblood locales. His mother started trembling where she stood, grabbing hold of the nearest chair. Sirius frowned at her.

"Was that an earthquake? Oh, no—it's your _mother_, turning-in-her-grave," Narcissa declared, rolling her eyes when Sirius just grinned handsomely. "Oh, Sirius," Narcissa sighed, shaking her head. "Why didn't you just have Dumbledore's face tattooed on your chest? Or 'I Love Muggles' across your forehead. Although, I know you've got so many now you probably can't actually find a place for the first."

"Don't tell me you've had all _your_ tattoos removed, Cissy," Sirius smirked. Draco found this man's attitude—supremely self-confident, at the same time exasperatingly indolent and sarcastic—at once endearing, though he'd never taken a shine to anyone in his life except his mother. "Even that little heart-shaped one between your…?" Draco glanced at his mother; Narcissa licked her lips, trying to disguise a small smile, and a gently flush crept up her high cheekbones. _Mother has tattoos?_

"Don't try and be charming, Sirius, those days are way behind you," Narcissa said serenely.

"And here I thought I was getting more handsome every day," Sirius smirked. "So, I suppose you'll want to talk to Dumbledore."

"Yes," Narcissa sighed. "Is he here?"

"No, he's been detained back at the school," Sirius said, and Draco thought he looked a little bit wistful. But his expression changed when he slid his eyes over Draco, perched on a little side-table at the foot of the sweeping staircase that held several exquisitely-wrapped gifts, a candelabra and two half-empty glasses of wine.

"He doesn't look like them, Cissy," he said quietly to Draco's mother, though he kept his eyes fixed frowningly on Draco. "I certainly hope you can explain yourself."

"All in good time, Sirius," Narcissa said quietly. "Is he here?"

"Upstairs brooding," Sirius said, chuckling softly.

"Well, that has a certain quality of déjà vu about it, doesn't it; Christmastime, a family gathering, one ill-tempered teenaged boy hiding upstairs to ruin it for everyone else. Walburga always said 'Leave him alone for a little while and he'll come around."

"Mother never understood me," Sirius remarked, examining a tiny little present, shaking it and frowning bemusedly at the little chiming noise it made. "Why d'you think I spiked the 'kids' Butterbeer with Uncle Al's home-brewed firewhiskey."

"I _knew_ you were the one spiking it," Narcissa giggled softly. "Poor Regulus!"

"He didn't stop vomiting for twenty-four hours," Sirius sighed, and an expression of the utmost bliss softened every feature until his face was positively radiant, angelic. "It was the best Christmas of my life."

"You didn't even spend Christmas Day with your family," someone else commented, and Draco glanced up to the top of the stairs, where a slightly peaky but nevertheless much more healthy Professor Lupin stood, watching them all with those kind pale-brown eyes. "You ran off to James's house as soon as you'd grabbed your presents from under the tree here."

"Wasn't much to claim," Sirius shrugged, as Lupin dropped down the steps to reside by the other man. Next to Sirius Black, even Lupin's tired face seemed to gain new life, and Draco could sort of see the wholesome, untainted version of him in the golden lights in his hair and the warmth of his eyes.

"I hope you didn't have any problems," Lupin said, with that inherent tenderness in his voice that made anyone think he really, truly, _cared_. Because he did, and that was something Draco wasn't used to.

"Apart from this one having a tantrum," Narcissa said, indicating Draco, who scowled.

"I didn't have a tantrum. You just weren't telling me anything," he said obstinately. He was acting like a child and he knew it, but he didn't care. He wanted to know what was going on. His parents never denied him anything (except affection, in his father's case, and boundaries in his mother's) so being out of the loop in why he was wherever he was—_the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, of all places. Father would have a heart-attack if he found out_—was more than a catalyst for him to be unpleasant.

"Well, come on upstairs to the drawing-room. We can talk," Sirius sighed, and turning around to face the staircase he sighed again, muttering, "_Stairs_," dejectedly under his breath, using the banister to pull himself up.

"Did you decorate everything yourself, Sirius?" Narcissa asked, as golden fairies that had been acting as lights in the garland up the stairs giggled softly and rose into the air as Draco brushed past the fir decoration.

"No, I have my own little helpers," Sirius smirked. "They're all probably upstairs eavesdropping _with the Extendable Ears Molly confiscated_," he said, raising his voice, and Draco glanced up past the first gallery to the second and saw a flesh-coloured string disappear hastily with several hushed whispers and creeping dark shadows. He glanced around, seeing Narcissa's bemused expression.

"The Weasley kids are here for the holidays," Sirius grinned jubilantly, and Draco groaned, giving his mother a look. _Shit. Potter, the Weasleys, Father's in Azkaban, and I'm stuck here for the holidays…what a holly, jolly Christmas we'll have_. Sirius's voice and a hand on his shoulder with a very solemn expression recalled him from his thoughts. "Do you want me to start spiking the Butterbeer now, or later?"

"Just give me the whiskey straight-up," Draco grumbled, and Sirius smirked. Lupin continued up to the third floor while Sirius showed Draco and his mother into a drawing-room that faced onto the green in the middle of the cul-de-sac with the enormous Christmas-tree blocking the middle window. Everything, like downstairs, had been decorated, sparing no expense and leaving no nook or cranny untouched by the Christmas spirit. The huge mantelpiece had to hold at least a dozen stockings—all of them personalised, but all of them either red with gold decorations or gold with red—and even the curtain-poles had garlands strung up.

The Christmas-tree was immense. Usually Mother decorated with silver and white, or silver and blue, or silver and green. Cold colours. This Christmas-tree reached the ceiling, where a brilliant star glittered and undulated warm golden light—the light Draco had seen from the street—and the tree itself was covered with red baubles, red bows, and trails of exquisite golden _bubbles_ acting as tinsel. And it was no wonder the whole house smelled like Christmas, because additionally there were great decorations made of gingerbread hanging on the tree, and chocolates wrapped in festive tinfoil. More presents were wrapped and stashed under the tree, and a pair of long legs clad in fishnet-tights and leg-warmers tucked into chunky black combat boots were sticking out from under the tree. Sirius strode over to the tree, bent down and grasped the ankles and gave a sharp tug, dragging the pink-haired young woman out from under the tree, eyes wide with guilt as she lay with a gingerbread man poised in her mouth ready to be bitten in half.

"We have business to discuss," he declared, sighing and frowning threateningly as the girl munched on the gingerbread man's legs. "You _ATE_ his gumdrop buttons!!!"

"They're so chewy and sugary," the girl said, batting innocent blue eyes.

"Well, come on, and meet your _aunt_," Sirius said, turning with a slightly contemptuous look at Narcissa. Draco glanced at the girl; she was probably only a few years older than he was, and she had the cool new _Weird Sisters_ concert t-shirt on over layered long-sleeved tops in hues of orange and green that clashed magnificently with her fuchsia hair.

"My what?"

"Tonks, this is Narcissa Black, your mother's sister," Sirius said, sighing as he threw himself with perfect laziness into a huge squashy red winged armchair, legs sprawled out languorously in front of him, fingers propping his head up as his arm leaned on the arm of the chair. "Narcissa, this is Andromeda's girl Nymphadora, who likes to go by Tonks—I would do, if you ask me!" Draco glanced at Nymphadora—_Tonks_, he reminded himself—and stared. He had a _cousin_! He'd been an only-child his entire life, with no children from his imprisoned aunt and uncle to keep him company, and no contact with his mother's other sister, the one who had been ostracised from the family for marrying a Muggle-born. That's all Draco knew about his family; Mother didn't talk about her sisters very much, and he'd never heard of Nymphadora. That kind of name would tend to stick in the brain.

"Are you in the Order?" Narcissa asked, shaking Tonks's hand.

"Yup," Tonks grinned. "I'm an Auror, too." Narcissa smiled.

"Impressive." Draco noticed his mother's eyes didn't stray to the visible belly-piercing or the multiple silver ear-piercings Tonks showed off, or the excrutiatingly short red plaid skirt with jangling chains.

"What's going on?" Draco glowered as Harry Potter entered the room—looking like a male rag-doll someone had long-since ceased to love. _He's always so scruffy_, Draco thought contemptuously, wondering why Potter didn't go to a Muggle shop and buy some decent clothing, or get his hair cut once in a while. When Draco caught his eye, Potter's eyes narrowed behind the round glasses and they shared a glare before Sirius snapped the drawing-room door closed.

"Cissy, you'd better talk, because I don't know what's going on," he declared. Lupin shot him a look.

"Actually, _I'll_ start," he said, frowning as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Boys, why don't you take a seat?" He nodded to the largest squashy-looking red sofa. It was a three-seater, so Draco sat as far away from Potter as he could, leaving a seat between them. Likewise, Potter seemed to squash himself against the arm of the sofa.

"Last week, Draco, your mother contacted the Order about your predicament," Lupin said gently, but nevertheless, Potter's head jerked to Draco suspiciously and Draco gave him a sidelong glance before shrinking further into his seat. "We have all agreed, your mother especially, that we will do everything we can to prevent _that_ from happening." Draco glared at the floor, more guilty and ashamed than he was angry. Still, he didn't need lecturing about this, albeit from his favourite lecturer from school. "You're going to live here at Grimmauld Place from now on, outside of term-time, and we are going to ensure you take on a disguise to protect yourself there. That, I think, is your cue, Mrs Malfoy."

"Yes, thank you Remus," Narcissa said quietly. Draco frowned at the floor. Since when was her mother on first-name terms with a werewolf? Even one who had been Draco's favourite teacher, and she _knew_ that from the number of letters he had sent home in third year exclaiming about him and how well Draco was doing thanks to his lessons. Draco glanced up as he heard a gentle _swish_ of silk; his mother had taken off her coat and jacket, exposing her slender throat and a diamond necklace Father had bought her for her birthday. It wasn't natural for her to have her hair pulled up. Even when he was a baby, she had kept her hair long and loose. She hadn't even minded him tugging on it, trying to suck on it because when he saw her silvery-blonde hair, he'd always made the connection to sugar-quills.

"Draco, Harry, there is something I am afraid I have to tell you both…"

* * *

**A.N.**: Reviews equals love and Belgian Chocolate Cheesecake! Oooh, Goodie! I know I'll get reviews because you'll all be in _so_ much suspense you'll all want to know right away with happens! Come on! Give me some reveiws, _please_, I'm ill and irritable! Don't let me take all my frustration out on my mum. She's shorter than me. She'll get a complex!

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	3. Family Ties

**A.N.**: PLEASE, if you're going to add me to a Favourites/Alerts list,_ please_ review as well so I know why you like it/what you're looking for in the story/how I can improve. I've got conjunctivitis and am confined to my house, so entertain me with reviews, _please_.

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Draco waited, watching his mother play with the antique Edwardian brilliant-cut diamond ring his father had given her to replace her last engagement-ring, a chunky three-emeralds-and-two-diamonds ring he'd given her on their tenth anniversary. The diamond was for their twentieth, a few years ago.

"Seventeen years ago, almost, in May, I gave birth to a little boy…sweet boy…who died, after only four weeks of life, from contracting dragon-pox before his immunisation," Narcissa said. Draco stared. He'd never known that. He'd had a brother and he'd never known about him? "And his name was Draco…Abraxas…Malfoy." Draco let that sink in. And realised he didn't actually understand.

"Huh?" Potter spoke, of course, his expression completely flummoxed, and Draco was glad he wasn't the one to voice his ignorance. A tiny smile graced Narcissa's pale face. Something rustled softly and Draco's eyes snapped to the door. Sirius put his finger to his lips, leapt sprightly across the room and jerked the door open. There, piled on top of each other, were all of the Weasley children and Hermione Granger. All of them wide-eyed and shocked that they'd been caught.

"Get upstairs, the lot of you, or you'll feel the back of my hand," Sirius shouted, as they scattered.

"I hope you'll at least buy me dinner first," one of the identical and to Draco indecipherable Weasley twins said, smirking, and Sirius had to jump at him to get him to shift his weight upstairs, giggling. Sirius closed the door again and resumed his seat in the squashiest armchair nearest the fire, eyes locked on Narcissa.

"Go on, Cissy; they'll eavesdrop again but at least they'll know the truth, not snippets of rumours," Sirius said quietly, but with supreme authority, waving her onwards. Draco watched his mother take a deep breath and she turned back to the two boys sitting on the sofa.

Draco listened, waiting to hear how he had come to die.

"One of the medi-Witches who came to check on me after I had given birth had come into contact with a patient at St Mungo's suffering from the disease, and the baby died because of it. My husband and I never told anyone about it; it was customary at the time for witches to go into confinement before and after their child was born, so people just assumed that our baby was healthy and doing perfectly. Just before Christmastime later that same year, we learned, through…_sources_…that the Dark Lord was going to go after your family, Harry." Here Sirius cleared his throat and gave Draco's mother a very potent look. "From one of our spies we learned that Lily and James Potter were parents to twin boys—" here, she glanced back at Sirius before continuing—"but the Dark Lord was interested only in the eldest." Draco didn't look away from his mother, even though Potter reacted with a nervous jump at the other end of the sofa. He was waiting for the next words that came out of his mother's mouth. _Dreading_ what they would be.

"_WHAT_?" The bellow came from Potter, and this time Draco had to look away from his mother's strained expression. Everyone in the room turned to see Potter standing up, shoulders hunched, his fists clenched by his hips, glowering so viciously Draco wondered why he'd never been really _scared_ of Potter before now, or at least wary. _Wow. This is what his friends have to put up with when he's pissed off_, he thought, tucking himself away into the corner of the sofa, tucking the image into the back of his mind for later when he decided to do something stupid to provoke his schoolboy-rival. Potter turned to Sirius and Lupin. "Nobody ever _told_ me _that_."

"Harry, wait—let Narcissa finish," Lupin said calmingly.

"I don't _want_ to _let_ her _finish_," Potter snapped. "I want to know why neither of you—or _anyone_—told me _I HAD A BROTHER!_"

"We thought he was dead," Sirius said darkly, but with such a deadpan tone that no-one (at least Draco didn't think so) could think of anything to say in response, and Draco could just imagine steam issuing from Potter's ears. At any rate, they could each probably fry and egg on his face with the look he was giving Sirius. "Sit down and let Cissy finish." Draco had never met anyone who called his mother 'Cissy'. Even Aunt Bellatrix called her 'Cissa' or 'Narcissa'. And never with so much ease as Sirius let his tongue form her name, as if it was something sumptuous that had to be enjoyed slowly to fully appreciate it.

Potter paused for a second, looking like he was going to throttle something, and sat down violently with a _thump_, grinding his jaw at Draco's mother.

"Due to an unfortunate…accident with my husband during a fight with members of the Order," Narcissa began again, turning to give Sirius a _very_ dirty look, "we were no longer able to try for more children." Draco glanced quickly from his mother to Sirius, who had thrown his head back and laughed. His whole body seemed to resonate with that deep, rolling laugh, and it echoed around the room and filled all the far corners, filling everyone (at least Draco) with warmth and the feeling that maybe they, too, could laugh that heartily. Draco had always known his father was unable to give his mother any more children because of an accident during the first war. His mother hadn't been squeamish in answering his questions about not having any brothers or sisters, or "bubbas and sassas." He'd never known it was Sirius Black who'd caused his father's sterility.

"You did that?" he said softly, staring at Sirius. He wasn't a murderer, but he'd stopped one man's ability to produce any more children. _Good thing_, Draco thought, contradicting his own accusatory tone towards his mother's cousin.

"Oh, trust me, dear boy, I _relished_ doing it," Sirius said, licking his lips luxuriously as if enjoying a particularly opulent treat.

"Anyway," Narcissa said curtly, and Draco noticed her nostrils were flared and white in anger. "When we heard the lengths to which the Dark Lord would go to annihilate the boy, so shortly after losing our own child, we could not let that happen. We could not let him take another child from his parents that way." Draco waited, ignoring the fact that his lungs were panging painfully because he'd forgotten to breathe, leaning forward as if drawn to her words like a snake to its charmer, mouth open slightly, and eyes wide. Waiting.

"Shortly after the New Year that year, before your parents went into hiding, Harry, I went to the Potters' family manor, and begged your parents," Narcissa paused, taking a deep steadying breath that nonetheless shook as she drew it, her hands trembling slightly, "to let me take their second child. Your twin."

"No." Draco spoke this time. He couldn't help it: He just blurted the first thing that popped into his head. The conclusion his mother's words were leading to. Everyone looked at him, now, not Potter. He stared at his mother. "No. That's ludicrous." _I can't be his brother. He can't be _my_ brother_, he thought, stricken. _There is no way in this universe I am related to Harry Potter_.

"It is not." A new voice, but one which Draco associated with every aspect of his entire life and recognised in a heartbeat, joined the room. Potter jumped up from the sofa—and Draco realised that he, too, was on his feet. They had struck the same pose; clenched fists, taut shoulders, glowering. Snape arrived, like an overgrown bat, but a bat that had nonetheless helped raise Draco since young infancy.

"Professor?" Draco glanced between the adults—sans Tonks, who had the crotch of the gingerbread man in her mouth, nibbling furiously like a hamster, her now glistening black eyes zooming like his between the others in the room—and settled back on Snape, not before marking the distinct aura of hatred emanating from Sirius towards Snape.

"Listen to what your mother is saying, Draco. Have you ever known her to tell a lie?" Draco frowned, glanced at his mother, glanced back at Snape, opened his mouth—Snape gave him a sour look. "I brought the potion you wanted, Lupin. Just a few drops of blood and it will all be sorted."

"Thank you, Severus," Lupin said, with none of the frosty politeness of Snape. "Narcissa, was there anything else you wanted to add?"

"Well, to save confusion, Harry, Draco, you are brothers. Twins," Narcissa said, and as one both boys convulsed unconsciously as the feeling of cold liquid ran down their necks. "Your given name, Draco, was Henry Sirius Potter. Your father and I changed it once we had taken the appropriate measures of adoption, and since that day you have been Draco Malfoy. No one save Severus ever knew of the switch we had made, between you and…" Her voice trailed off sadly, her lovely eyes darkening with melancholy.

"Why _him_?" Potter spat, glaring at Narcissa.

"For the very same reason, Potter, that I have been continuously doing my best throughout your student life to keep _you_ alive," Snape said coldly, sneering at Potter. Draco did a tiny little internal happy-dance. It was nice to see Snape berate someone else this year, for a change. "And an explanation I do not believe you have earned."

"Why tell us all this, now?" Draco asked, glancing between Snape and Potter. He was used to their enmity in the classroom, but this was on a greater level than he'd seen even between his father and some of his comrades—they were always trying to cut each other down to get closer to the top-spot.

"With your _real_ name, Draco, and the appearance your father and I masked with potions and charms when you were a baby, no one would be able to place you properly," his mother said tenderly. "I tell you all this now because it is the only way I could conceive to keep you safe."

"And become an entirely different person," he snapped, glaring up at her. "My name is not _Henry_. And I do not want to look like _that_." He shot a glare at Potter, who raised his eyebrows in mild offence. "No offence."

Potter didn't reply with a 'None taken' but by the expression on his face, Draco wasn't actually certain there was any comprehensive thought going on inside Potter's brain.

"Harry? Are you alright?" Tonks peered closely into Potter's face, much too closely than Draco would have appreciated.

"I…" Potter seemed to be swaying slightly where he stood, his almond-shaped emerald-green eyes enormous, focused on nothing in particular. "I…I have a brother." Draco glared at him at the same time as Potter turned his completely gormless wide-eyed, slack-jawed face to him.

"If you need evidence, Mr Malfoy, that you are indeed a, well, a Potter," Snape said silkily, breaking the eye-contact between Draco and his 'brother', "the potion I gave Lupin is the most powerful concoction to compare Deoxyribonucleic acid."

"_What_?" Tonks spoke up, wrinkling her little nose. She'd finished nibbling on the gingerbread man's crotch and was now onto amputating the rest of his limbs.

"DNA," Potter breathed. "Your genetic makeup. Both of your parents donate half when a… If we _are_ twins, it should be almost identical." _God, I have the same 'genetic makeup' of Harry Fucking Potter, the Boy Who Wouldn't Die_, Draco growled to himself, clenching his jaw. A very tiny part of him wondered just what 'genetic makeup' actually was and how _Potter_, of all people, knew what it was when even Theodore Nott probably didn't know.

"You said a few drops of blood, Severus?" Lupin spoke up, moving the pieces of an infant's home-made felt nativity set out of the way on the coffee-table (to Sirius's consternation, tutting indignantly) to replace it with an Erlenmeyer flask filled with translucent white liquid. "Harry, just a fingertip will do, don't worry." Draco watched, and wished he'd sat down (he didn't handle the sight of blood very well) as Lupin touched the tip of his wand to the tip of Potter's forefinger; Potter winced, and Lupin squeezed the cut so that several drops of blood fell _drip, drip…drip_ into the flask. The droplets all merged together to form one diaphanous trail swirling inside the still water.

"Draco, your turn," Lupin said gently, with an encouraging smile. Draco eyed his mother, eyed Potter, and bolted.

* * *

_Between being a Potter, and death, I for one choose death_, he thought, running down the stairs. He'd reached halfway across the front hallway when something grabbed him around the knees and he plummeted painfully to the floor, biting the wooden floorboards, missing the soft rug by inches. He wriggled, trying to lose the leg-locker curse, but glancing down at his legs he saw it wasn't a curse, at all, but a live human-being with scruffy black hair and circular glasses hanging off one ear.

"Potter, get the _FUCK OFF OF ME_," Draco bellowed, trying to knee the other boy wherever he could; he got the collar-bone, the nose, and (he winced guiltily when Potter spluttered like a death-croak) the throat. But he didn't let go; didn't free Draco's knees, until they started wrestling properly. No punching or anything, just _wrestling_, Draco trying his hardest to get as close to the front-door as he could. By the time the adults had arrived downstairs, Potter had him in a headlock, the bone of his forearm digging into Draco's oesophagus, no doubt trying to pay him back from that knee to his throat earlier.

Potter laughed softly, pushing his glasses up his nose with his free hand, and spoke in Draco's ear so the adults nearest couldn't hear, though by Snape's expression (a tiny, knowing smirk) he probably read Potter's lips, "I suppose I really _am_ your big-brother." Draco growled and jerked his body, trying to get free of the bastard's grip, trying to elbow him in the chest. When did the skinny bastard get so strong? _When you got stupid enough to physically fight him_, Draco thought, smacking himself internally for his own cheek.

"Draco, please be reasonable," his mother requested soothingly.

"Be _reasonable!_" Draco shrieked hysterically, squirming in his bro—_Potter's_—grip. "You're telling me I'm _adopted_, and I'm an _OW!!!_" Using Draco's momentary distraction to his advantage, Lupin had pricked Draco's finger and forced the blood into the glass flask. But Draco was by no means defeated, and he writhed in Potter's grip, being as difficult as he could to get away when Lupin released his arm. Doing the only thing he could comprehend to do in such a situation without access to the wand that had clattered across the floor to the cabinet when he'd fallen, he started yelling again. "You're telling me you went against every basic principle you've instilled in _me_—as a _PUREBLOOD_—in _adopting_ me! You're telling me I'm a _Potter_ and that my name is _HENRY_! I am _NOT A HENRY_! It's just so _common_, so—"

"Positive."

Draco jerked his head back to Lupin. He held the flask up for everyone—including the five red heads and one brunette poking over the gallery banister—to see: the translucent water in which Potter's blood had swirled undisturbed by the stillness of the potion itself had not changed. One bit. It was like Draco's blood hadn't even been added.

"The blood…mixed together," Potter said weakly, and Draco felt the weight thrown into almost-choking him lessen as Potter spoke. He answered unconsciously the question Draco did not want to answer. "Because it's the same?"

"The very same," Lupin smiled softly, glancing at the beaker. "Draco, if you continue to squirm like that, you'll suffocate yourself."

"And _completely_ defeat the object," Sirius remarked tartly, arms folded across his chest as he took up his customary place draping himself luxuriously over some stable surface—again, the little table at the foot of the stairs.

"Potter, would you _GET OFF ME!!_" Draco shouted.

"Would you _please_ stop shouting?" Sirius drawled, lazily examining his fingernails.

"What're you going to do if I _don't_?" Draco sneered. "_Bite_ me?"

"No. But Remus might," Sirius smirked.

"Sirius, would you _please_ not say things like that," Lupin said with a heartrending sigh.

"Yes, Black, we all know _you're_ the only one in this building capable of cold-blooded _murder_," Snape sneered.

"And castration." Sirius smirked, completely undeterred by Narcissa's slits for eyes. Draco knew that look, and he didn't envy Sirius that he was receiving it; he knew what it was like for his father when his mother got that vindictive gleam in her eyes. Because it happened so rarely, the effects were explosive. "I have an _excellent_ handle on castration." Draco shivered. He didn't fancy himself castrated, no thank you very much!

Sirius had to dive out of the way as Narcissa sent a curse hurling towards him. It hit the table and annihilated the arrangement, scattering the presents on the floor, alighting part of the garland twisted around the banister. Through the painful silence, a deep chuckle resonated, again reaching the most neglected corners of the room, starting low and rumbling almost uncontrollably as Sirius rose, his handsome face absolutely _radiant_ as a white-toothed grin flashed at everyone in the room. He had his wand out, now, his grip loose on the gleaming ebony wood, and he even had the audacity in the face of an armed opponent set on avenging her husband to toss his wand in the air and catch it a few times.

"Not bad, Cissy. Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, acting as a decoration all those years," Sirius taunted, his handsome face aglow with the thrill of armed confrontation. "Polish yourself up a bit you might even hit Bellatrix's level. Of course, I _slaughtered_ her at the Ministry, so—" He was cut off by a scream from Draco's mother, and Sirius and Snape _both_, this time, had to dodge a firing off of several different curses.

"Now, Cissy, that just wasn't nice," Sirius teased, his voice sugary, like honey, brushing a bit of dust from the shoulder of his jumper. _Like Umbridge_, Draco thought immediately. _No, Umbridge _was_ evil. He's cool…What?_ "Picking on poor Snivellus like that! What would luscious Lucius do if he found out you'd beaten his lapdog?" Potter made a tiny scratchy noise in his throat; Draco glanced around, frowned when he found Potter's face entirely too close for his liking, and saw the tiny smirk his broth—_Potter_—was trying to hide in Draco's shoulder.

All hell let loose after that, though, and though it would have seemed the most opportune moment to escape, Draco found himself riveted to the floor under the marble-topped table by the front-door next to Potter (who had dragged him there) sitting with his legs crossed, watching the fireworks. Snape was cursing Sirius, Sirius was cursing Snape and Narcissa at once, Lupin had jumped into the fray using _Protego _and _Expelliarmus_ ineffectually—they were all so angry (or ecstatic, in Sirius's case) to pay attention or stay still long enough to get hit by the curses. Tonks was shouting at the top of her lungs, though her high voice wasn't enough to get over the pitch of the Weasley twins' commentaries. Potter tugged on his sleeve but Draco was too enthralled with watching his mother duel. She was _good_. He'd never seen her do any magic in his life—she let Father, or the house-elf—but Father had told him once she excelled at Defensive spells. '_Ironic_,' he'd thought at the time. Now he knew why, because although she'd started the duel and although Sirius was fighting two at once, Narcissa was losing _her_ end of the fight.

"Oi, Malfoy!" Potter hissed, and Draco glared as he glanced away from his mother dancing lithely out of the way of a Conjunctivitis Curse.

"What?" he snapped, over the din. Potter jerked his head to a new figure that had emerged through the doorway; sweeping royal-purple robes embroidered with gold constellations. Tufts of feathery, silvery hair around the knees. _Dumbledore_, he thought, cocking his head out from under the table a bit further. And he wasn't the only one, either. There was a well-fed redhead woman with a face that was now drawn with so much bottled-up anger Draco wondered how all seven of her children had survived her wrath considering their antics, and a cocoa-skinned man with a gold earring he knew from his father's visits to the Auror department at the Ministry; Kingsley Shacklebolt. Draco hadn't even heard the doorbell ring.

But everyone in the entire building heard Dumbledore when he opened his mouth, similar to when the troll had invaded Hogwarts during Halloween in first year. "_STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP_."

"—slug him a good one, Sirius!" one of the Weasley twins finished yelling, as everyone in the hallway (and first-floor gallery) stopped to stare at the doorway. Draco thought it was high time he and Potter got out from under the table. Dumbledore regarded everyone in the hallway with a look of conflicting disapproval and mirth.

"Family reunion, Sirius?" he asked politely, as if asking whether Sirius had the morning paper.

"Brings out the best in me, Professor," Sirius remarked, flashing a grin. He, out of everyone downstairs, was completely unmarked. Quite frankly, he looked better for the fight.

"And _what_, may I ask, caused this, erm, skirmish?" Professor Dumbledore asked, clearing his throat. The 'adults' all put their wands away, lowering their chins in unison, glancing shame-facedly at each other.

"They did," Sirius said, as if he couldn't resist the impulse, pointing the finger at Draco and Potter. Draco let his jaw drop, frowning, but Potter just nudged him a little bit and gave him a brief look that told him this was Sirius's way. With an eye-roll, he conveyed the bare-naked facts that Sirius was a born aggravator who thrived on confrontation and revelled in opulence of food, surroundings and friends.

"Mrs Malfoy, we aren't still trying to take out our aggravation about your husband, are we?" Dumbledore asked gently. Draco had never seen his mother blush out of embarrassment or humiliation, though there it was; the heat rose up her cheeks and made her eyes glow as if she had caught sunburn.

"I shouldn't have let myself be so easily provoked, Professor," she said to the floor.

"And you, Remus? It is not your way to react violently," Dumbledore said softly.

"Old wounds, Professor. It seems some people still believe they can lead a lamb to slaughter by me," Lupin said gently, but with a rippling undercurrent of subtle anger as he glanced at Sirius.

"Almost worked once before," Sirius muttered half to himself, frowning at his thumbnail before setting his wand to it to trim it.

"I see," Dumbledore said quietly, giving Sirius a disapproving frown. "Other than this wonderful example of teenaged idiocy, what have we missed?" Draco hid his smirk at the same time a chortle caught in Potter's throat. _'Teenaged idiocy,_' he repeated to himself. Even he and Potter didn't start brawls with multiple people in the middle of a residential area. The Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor at Hogwarts, pending Potter's attempted contact with Sirius Black…who now stood before Draco armed and innocent…yes, but he'd never raised his wand (especially in front of witnesses) for revenge, and _never_, absolutely _never_ in his history of carrying a wand, had he unleashed it for the sheer thrill of seeing the effects. He loved the adrenaline from flying, not fighting.

"We've tested Mr Malfoy's blood against Harry's, Professor," Lupin said quietly. "It's a perfect match."

"Curious," Professor Dumbledore remarked softly. Mrs Weasley closed the door quietly behind her and Kingsley Shacklebolt rustled a few scrolls in his arms. "Mrs Malfoy, would you care to join our discussion this evening? Boys, you can wait upstairs while we have our meeting. Dinner should be ready after the meeting, shouldn't it?"

"Kreacher's been working away," Mrs Weasley beamed. _Ugh, god, _Kreacher_ lives here_, Draco thought, shivering disgustedly. That house-elf had come to his house last Christmas to deliver secret messages to his mother. They had almost cost Sirius his life, and had absolutely had everything to do with Aunt Bellatrix's death. Draco wasn't sorry she was gone.

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter prompted, when Draco didn't move, his eyes drifting unfocused over Tonks, who was changing her hair-colour to rich royal-purple to match Dumbledore's robes. He followed aimlessly after Potter, back to the drawing-room, where now all of the Weasleys and Hermione Granger had taken up residence, claiming the squashy armchairs and sofas, sprawled languorously over a chaise under the left-hand window, knitting something long but narrow and creamy in colour; a scarf.

"Well, I must say, I _do_ see the family connection," one of the twins started up immediately as Draco closed the door behind him. Draco glanced over him, slack-jawed, and the twin smirked slightly. Draco sank onto the only empty seat on the loveseat beside Potter and stared at the pattern of the new rug.

"…it's the higher octaves, when he shouts. They're very _Potter_ octaves," the other twin remarked, with a decisive nod.

"It's so _refreshing_ not to hear Mum or Harry shouting all the time," the first twin sighed happily. "It makes such a change to hear new voices around this place."

"You mean besides the ones inside your head, George?" Ron Weasley spoke up, and 'George' picked up the shepherd from the nativity set on the coffee-table and lobbed it at Ron's head. Being as it was made of felt and cardboard, it bounced off Ron's forehead and Ron replaced it easily in the set.

"I must say, it's really quite shocking," Granger said, her knitting-needles clacking rhythmically as the scarf lengthened itself remarkably quickly. She gazed at them all from the window, bushy hair illuminated by the golden fairies glinting amongst the lilies and the candelabra on the table beside her. "I've researched the Potter family _and_ the Malfoy family, and there was no mention of a Henry in the Potter's family-tree, _or_ the death of a Malfoy. And those sorts of things are recorded by the Hogwarts enrolment list to keep track of prospective students…Although I suppose records could be altered by powerful magic."

"And Lucius Malfoy isn't exactly known for his frivolous household charms," George said darkly. George—Draco now realised each of the Weasleys—sans the girl—were wearing their traditional Christmas jumpers (although they were last year's ones, still waiting for Christmas Day for the newest addition) and the twins' jumpers had 'G' and 'F' knitted on the front in contrasting colours.

Draco completely ignored the witty banter exchanged between Hermione Granger and the others, focusing on one thing. His hand.

His hand rested on the cushion right beside Potter's. And staring at it, and at Potter's, he realised they had exactly the same sized hands, the same long, clever fingers, the same neat nails, although Potter had faint scars on the back of his hand reading 'I Must Not Tell Lies'.

"What's wrong?" Potter asked, glancing at him nervously. Draco glanced up, bewildered. He couldn't have the same hands as Potter. He already had shitty eyesight, corrected only by Muggle contact-lenses. Mother said he had to wait until he was older to correct his vision with magic, until his eyes had settled themselves. He twisted in his seat and held up his hands, palms down. Potter did likewise, and Draco watched his face, waiting for the same comprehensive realisation. _The same hands, the same bloody eyesight, the same blood…Fuck it_.

* * *

**A.N.**: Tada! What do you think? I'm sorry it's going to take so long for the evening to actually end, I'm just building up the background for the rest of the story…which I haven't decided entirely what's going to happen yet! Anyway, please _REVIEW_ or (I may have already threatened this in this fanfic, I can't remember) I'll hunt you down and torture you with bizarre glittery liquid eyeliners! You can choose gold, silver or _blue_… If not, click on that nice big green button down there \/

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	4. A Mother's Love

**A.N.**: I'm now getting annoyed—If you're going to add me to an Alert list, or if you've taken the time to read this far, _please_ reward the time _I've_ spent writing this to write a review of my work! I love to know what you all think!

**A.N.2**: I'd just like to add, that I put a date in here; Christmas 1987; I'm writing this story as if they're enjoying Christmas 2008, so I can put in the tremendous snowstorm I'm currently watching through my bedroom-window into the story! Wow, these snowflakes are _huge_! And I-Didn't-Have-To-Go-To-Work-Yesterday!

**A.N.3**: Alright; I can't remember when Dumbledore told Harry about the magic he'd invoked on Lily's blood to keep Harry safe, so I'm just going to assume he already knows about it [I'm setting this story the winter of their sixth year].

* * *

"Hey, look what I found in our bedroom," Fred grinned, and Draco pulled his unfocused gaze away from the fat snowflakes flitting past the windows, illuminated outside by the Muggle streetlamps. Fred produced a large bottle of clear liquid with a silver label on the front and a Christmas-tag and curled ribbon tied around the slender neck. "Listen to the label; 'To Great-Uncle Regulus; Congratulations on twenty years of sobriety, Sirius. Christmas, 1987.' That's _cruel_." By the grin that made the corners of his mouth soar up to the crinkles at the sides of his eyes, Draco didn't think Fred thought it was _that_ mean. Draco had to admire the sense of humour of his mother's cousin. _Not my mother_, he thought dejectedly, letting his head loll to the side to jut his jaw out morosely at his _brother_.

"What do you say?" George grinned. "It's peppermint schnapps. How 'bout a little snifter before dinner?"

"Mum'll _kill_ you!" Weasley warned.

"No she won't!" the twins protested together. "She'll just blame Sirius for leaving alcohol lying around—Ginny, _go away_. You're not having any." Ginny, the Weasley-girl, protested so obnoxiously, fighting her twin-brothers tooth and nail as they tried to drag her to the door, that the boys had no choice but to acquiesce and let her have a thimbleful of alcohol.

"…_Malfoy_…_MALFOY_!!!" Draco just stared, disbelieving, at the far wall, almost panting for breath. _Harry Potter is my brother. He's my twin-brother. He's my twin. I'm a Potter_. Someone with a sheet of glistening dark saffron-red hair slapped his cheek lightly.

"_Maybe again?_" A second pat on the cheek, but Draco just stared off into the distance. _Everything Father always taught me goes completely against who I really am…I'm not a pureblood. I've been going around calling people mudbloods and making fun of the blood-traitors but _I'm_ a blood-traitor for being adopted by them. I'm a complete and utter hypocrite._

Someone slugged him right across the face and he yelled, clutching his eye, crumpling into the arm of the loveseat.

"_Hermione_!" someone shrieked indignantly.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" the feminine voice of Potter's friend asked.

"No, I'm bloody well _not alright!_ I'm related to the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die and the person I was almost forced to pledge my life to murdered my parents, _and_ I'm a walking billboard for hypocrisy _and_ you've just _gouged_ my _eye_ out, you _wench_! That's the second time you've hit me!" Draco said, his voice getting more and more hysterical. _And I think my contact's fallen out_, he added, rolling his left eye around behind his hand until the flimsy little silicone disc had settled back in place.

"Here, Malfoy; shut up and drink," George said, thrusting the bottle of schnapps into Draco's chest. Draco took the bottle, put it to his lips and let the hot, bitter liquid fill his mouth before taking the bottle away and gulping the alcohol down. His mouth and throat burned and his eyes smarted as he coughed, shaking his head, shivering, as if he'd just taken a particularly nasty medicine. He coughed again.

"God, that's _disgusting_," he coughed, shivering as he handed the bottle over to Potter. Everyone agreed with him; Ginny had to gulp down copious amounts of ice-water from her brother's wand before she stopped coughing; Fred and George both agreed they liked firewhiskey more, Ron couldn't actually _swallow_ the alcohol and Potter just sipped tiny bits so he didn't really get the same experience as Draco had. Hermione just knocked back the bottle, took a gulp, and only winced a bit before wiping her mouth and sticking out her tongue, disgusted.

Draco noticed something, though; everyone was much friendlier after they'd gone through about half the bottle amongst themselves. They weren't drunk; relaxed. And Draco actually _laughed_ when Weasley started aggravating his twin-brothers and they ganged up on him, wrestling on the drawing-room rug. Ginny went through three mince-pies, still trying to get rid of the taste of peppermint schnapps, and Hermione had settled herself in the armchair beside Draco's loveseat, curled up.

"It isn't very surprising that you hate each other," she sighed contentedly, glancing from Draco to Potter. "You must have been warring in the womb. Your poor mother." The idea of Draco sharing _anything_ with Potter was completely ludicrous, let alone the same amniotic fluids. "Dr Freud would have a field-day if he met you!"

"Who's Dr Freud?" Draco asked morosely, sighing, resting his head back against the back of the sofa. He and Potter both relaxed languidly in the squashy cushions, just sinking into the seat, watching Hermione.

"He was a Muggle psychiatrist who specialised in the unconscious mind and the repression of traumatic memories," Hermione said, as if recounting something memorised directly from a sourcebook.

"I reckon we could give him a run for his money," Potter said dryly. Draco nodded in agreement, chewing on a gingerbread man, feet propped up on the coffee-table.

"_Get him_, George! Get him!" Ginny shouted, egging on her brothers still wrestling with Weasley. The twins defeated him and Fred chuckled as he raised the bottle of schnapps to his mouth again. A knock on the door resounded in the room and Fred choked.

"_Mum_!" he hissed, and everyone played hot-potato trying not to let the bottle land in their possession before the door opened.

"Oh, for god's sake—!" Hermione sighed exasperatedly, snatching the bottle from Draco's lap where Potter had tossed it, and Draco stared as she plunged the bottle down the turtle-neck of her plum-purple, fluttery-sleeved tunic, adjusted herself and curled back into the chair. From this angle—or any angle, actually—no one could see _anything_ hinting any evidence of a _bottle_ of alcohol being nestled between Hermione's breasts.

Draco had a newfound respect for his classmate.

Completely innocent, she looked, peering over her knees as she sat curled in that armchair, her head propped up on her hand, looking slightly bored, watching the adults file into the room: Fred and George were uncharacteristically quiet; Ron Weasley left the room to conceal his hiccoughs as a hacking cough, and Ginny curled as small as she could into a ball on the other sofa, pretending to doze. Draco sighed as he pulled himself up straighter in the sofa. Potter did likewise and they glanced at each other: Draco narrowed his eyes: _Now we're doing the same things at the same exact time!_

Dumbledore took the seat Ginny vacated for him with a smile and Draco noticed his mother was playing absently with her rings, nibbling her lip nervously as she watched the two boys, resting on the back of Dumbledore's chair.

"It seems I missed rather an exciting story, Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly. "However, there is something which your mother, here, does not know. When your biological mother, Lily Potter, was murdered, she instilled the most powerful form of protection in _then_ her only remaining son; Harry." Draco glanced at Potter, wondering what kind of 'protection' could have been put on him, wondering if it would work on him, too, against Voldemort.

"The protection I speak of is _love_. Lily Potter sacrificed her own life for that of her son, and Lord Voldemort, who is unable to appreciate Lily's sacrifice, could never abide to touch one who is protected by anything as powerful," Dumbledore explained. "Until two years ago, when Lord Voldemort—" Draco winced slightly. He hated the name. Why couldn't they just call him Tom Riddle like he knew was the 'Dark Lord's' real name—"stole some of Harry's blood, thus enabling him to touch Harry without causing him excruciating pain. When your parents were murdered, I delivered Harry to your aunt and uncle's house, and there I imbued the protective powers that come from a blood connection. Lily's blood-connection to her sister more than satisfied the requirements for such a spell, and Harry has been living in safety from _any_ harm for the last sixteen years. While Harry can call the Dursleys 'family', he is safe." Draco chanced a glance at Potter; he was rolling his eyes slightly, arms folded tight across his chest, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Oh," Granger said softly, her mouth slightly open as she gazed at Dumbledore. She flushed when all eyes landed on her, and Draco wondered if she was afraid they would guess she had a bottle hidden in her bosom. "Do you mean…?"

"Go ahead, Miss Granger," Dumbledore smiled luxuriously. "What conclusion have you come to from my story?"

"Well—Do you mean to say that—since Harry and Draco _are_ blood," Granger said, glancing at Draco and Potter: "Do you mean that you could place them under the same charms, as long as they could learn to call each other brothers?" Draco glanced to Dumbledore; everyone did. He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling amusedly.

"Very good, Miss Granger," he smiled forgivingly. "Yes. While Draco and Harry share Lily's blood, whenever they are together, they cannot be touched."

"What spells would you have to work on them?" Narcissa asked nervously. "To protect them both?"

"Oh—it's old, _old_ magic," Dumbledore sighed. "Very dry, and I'm afraid I do not have adequate time this evening to do an explanation any justice. _But_, I do believe the easiest and quickest way to ensure Draco's safety, Mrs Malfoy, is by removing those charms you placed on him. We shall resort him at Hogwarts under his real—that is to say, original—name and move him to the Gryffindor Tower."

Draco gulped audibly, glancing at Potter.

"You mean to say, the only way we can stay alive is by learning to _love each other_," he gasped. _AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!!!_

"We'll kill each other!" Potter said at the same time, both overriding each other's words. Draco couldn't breathe properly; he couldn't go and live in Gryffindor Tower, even if he was in disguise. He couldn't get used to the idea of being called _Henry_! It was so common! He was so not a Henry! He didn't _want_ to leave the Slytherin dormitories! …But he didn't want to keep working on that fucking Vanishing Cabinet, either. And he'd never actually had any real friends; maybe he could start making some now.

"Miss Granger, please!" Dumbledore sighed, as Draco yelped.

"That's the _THIRD BLOODY TIME!!!_" Draco shouted, rubbing his face where she'd smacked him one. "Jeez, you really know how to pack a punch!"

"Draco, watch your tongue if you like it attached to your body," Narcissa warned, giving him a disapproving look.

"Funny—I said the same thing to Lucius about his balls," Sirius laughed to himself, and Narcissa glowered at Sirius. He smirked. Draco rubbed his cheek again.

"You're saying we have to stick together in order to survive?" Potter reiterated. Draco glanced at his _brother_. _I bet I'll have to share a room with him, too, the slob!_

"I for one choose death," he said in a low growl.

"I am afraid, Mr Malfoy, there is no choice in the matter," Dumbledore said lightly. Draco's lungs caved as he gaped at the headmaster. "I will return in a few days' time to perform the necessary spells. Until then, boys, I think you should take the opportunity of this holiday to get to know one another. You might be surprised what you learn." He gave them a sparkly-eyed smile and glided out of the drawing-room. Leaving a path of devastation and destruction. Mrs Weasley and Narcissa followed Dumbledore out of the room:

"Er…Malfoy, are you alright?"

"He's getting catatonic again, Hermione; you'd best give him another drink," George remarked, and Sirius gawped incredulously as Hermione reached down the neck of her top again and produced the half-empty bottle of liquor.

"Wow! I didn't even know that was down there! What else are you hiding, Hermione?" Sirius asked, while Draco uncapped the bottle and took a gulp of that disgusting, burning, _minty_ alcohol again.

Usually Draco was exceptionally good at categorising his life. He put things away in little tiny boxes inside his brain to take out again at his leisure. Now that was all blown out the window. Today had officially broken him.

And getting into an argument with the Weasleys and Potter and Granger—even a good-natured one—felt so _liberating_ because when he laughed, it was a real _laugh_; by the time dinner was ready his cheeks hurt from grinning, his eyes were tired and sore from crying with laughter at the Weasley-twins, and his stomach felt like the muscles were tightening just from the exertion that was laughing. And wrestling with his _brother_, and chasing Granger around the drawing-room for the last mince-pie she'd had the audacity to try and steal. And watching his mother and Sirius Black banter on shamelessly in the dining-room while they set the table, seeing _her_ smile like he had never seen her smile in his entire life, made him keenly aware of something:

He could like this place.

* * *

It helped that he was 'forced' to sit through a full roast-pork dinner with all the trimmings and a choice of two of his favourite puddings; syrup-sponge and apple crumble, where the crumble was just soft, sugary and chewy enough.

"Sirius Black, you _do not need_ that syrup!" Mrs Weasley snapped indignantly, hands on her hips, serving-spoon in hand as Sirius smiled, laced his fingers around a squeezable bottle of Lyle's Golden Syrup and rested his chin on the cap, smiling blithely, eyes on the syrup-sponge.

"Sirius, you _always_ used to have extra syrup!" Narcissa laughed softly. "Aren't you sick of it?"

"My darling, my dear—I was in Azkaban for twelve years. There are some things you do not take for granted when you are released. Extra syrup is one of them," Sirius declared softly.

"A healthy sex-life is another one," Fred remarked, and Mrs Weasley clubbed her first-born-twin around the head with the serving-spoon, berating him for his language as Tonks, Granger and Weaslette giggled and Ron Weasley choked on his apple-crumble, grinning behind his napkin. Draco chuckled into his glass, sitting beside his _other_, much more good-natured and easy-going and _fun_ godfather.

"It's true, Molly," Sirius sighed, pouting wistfully into the distance. Mrs Weasley chose not to acknowledge his remark and sighed, turning to Draco with a warm smile. "It's been _fifteen years _since I last had sex. Oh-My-_GOD_!!!" With a wail, Sirius banged his head with an enormous clatter on his place-setting, sending his remaining cutlery skittering across the table onto the floor. Draco caught Harry's eye and they both couldn't stop laughing as he patted his godfather on the shoulder sympathetically as he continued to wail theatrically over Mrs Weasley's indignant huffs and the girls' near-hysterical giggles and the twins' none-too-appropriate jokes.

"And that, my dear cousin," Narcissa spoke up, sipping her elf-made wine with a delicious smirk, "is what you call karma come round to bite you in the arse."

"You're going the right way for a smacked bottom, young-lady," Sirius said, quirking an eyebrow at Narcissa, and Tonks and Ginny and Hermione all keeled over in their chairs, unable to control themselves.

"What would you like with your apple-crumble, Draco?" Mrs Weasley asked tersely over her daughter's hiccoughs, changing the subject. "We've got cream, custard or ice-cream."

"Yes please," Draco licked his lips. Mrs Weasley chuckled, and surprisingly she actually served him all of the above. "You look peaky, dear—here have an extra dollop of custard." Draco glanced across the table at his mother: they shared an amused smirk. Mrs Weasley was definitely matriarch of her family, all-powerful.

And she liked to get into arguments with Sirius about Harry Potter's well-being. Now, by association, she started having a go about Draco being "_much_ too thin!" and wanting to make sure "we take care of you" despite the fact that Draco's mother was sitting not two seats from her.

Draco's mother knew Draco had been forced to acquiesce in helping the Death Eaters. She didn't know, though, that he spent every spare minute trying to fix that fucking Vanishing Cabinet because he was afraid Voldemort would kill his mother. She didn't know that he rarely ate regularly because he was so obsessed with that fucking Cabinet. She _did_ know that he was having trouble with his schoolwork, because his professors kept writing to her about it: McGonagall had stopped letting him go to Hogsmeade. Not that he would have gone anyway, but continuous detentions kept him from working on the Cabinet…which, now…he didn't have to.

Because his mother was fine. She was giggling girlishly with her _niece_, telling the other girls stories about Sirius that made the subject yell indignantly in his defence, threatening to torture her with bizarre liquid household cleaning products from the supply-closet in the kitchen.

"Oh yeah! Well I could tell them things about you, Cissy, that would make your son's hair curl," Sirius declared. "Things from your _diary_."

"You read my diary?"

"U-huh."

"You did _not_."

"I did—and, I quote, 'Dear _Merlin_, please help me stop doing…_you know what_ with _Édouard-Henri Avril_," Sirius said smugly, smirking deliciously after he'd deliberately taken great efforts to lick his spoon clean, eyes never wavering from Draco's mother's face. Draco glanced at his mother, amused; he had never seen her so _internal_. She was staring, mortified, into the distance, cut-crystal wine-glass in hand, her lips slightly parted.

"Who was Édouard-Henri Avril?" Draco asked curiously. He had never heard of his mother having had any lovers before his father—though he couldn't imagine why; she was absolutely lovely in photographs of her teenaged years: She was hardly less attractive now, but in those days she had that catnip aspect about her now imbued in Hermione and Ginny: they were at the age when men were attracted to them like cats were attracted to catnip. They couldn't help themselves.

"He illustrated _Fanny Hill_," Hermione spoke up, and then clapped a hand over her mouth, a hot flush rising up her cheeks as the adults looked at her.

"What's _Fanny Hill_?" Ron asked.

"The _original_ Muggle erotic novel," Sirius smirked deliciously. "Why, _Hermione_, we all knew you read a lot but—"

"Sirius!" Mrs Weasley warned, and seeing the look on Hermione's face, Sirius just chuckled softly and turned his attention back to his pudding.

* * *

The radio—a slim silver converted Muggle contraption, not a chunky wireless—was tuned to a Muggle station, and a joyful young voice cooed '_All I want for Christmas is yooooooouuuu_.' They had all migrated (slowly, and with much massaging of full stomachs) to the drawing-room, and Sirius had taken up his place in his squashy red armchair. Hermione was singing along softly to the Muggle carol, her foot jigging to the jingle of the bells with her legs thrown over the arm of her chair, sprawled luxuriously in an armchair in front of the fire, her eyes focused on her knitting: she was onto something emerald-green. The Weasley twins had left for the flat above their shop to lock up for the night, and Mr and Mrs Weasley had returned to their family stronghold; as the safest place in all of Great Britain, they had left their youngest children at Grimmauld Place under the unconventional care of Sirius Black. Ginny was curled up, dozing, in the smallest and squashiest armchair, hugging the soft cashmere blanket that had been draped over the chaise and Ron Weasley had stretched out along the radiator and fallen asleep completely; his gentle snores went ignored. Draco was warm and drowsy, and strangely _at peace_ for the first time in ages. He could see his mother singing along softly to the chorus that had repeated several times already, sipping another glass of wine she was sharing with Sirius as they sprawled luxuriously over a squashy loveseat Draco and Harry had occupied earlier in the evening.

"Well," Sirius sighed contentedly: His eyes were half-lidded, having been dozing contentedly while he talked softly with Draco's mother, his hand resting on his stomach as his head lolled sleepily. "I think it's time we all went to bed." Draco grunted softly into the arm of the armchair he'd curled into; _Kreacher's cooking is a narcotic_, he thought, nuzzling the arm, sighing as he closed his eyes and his body relaxed in pre-sleep. Apparently, so was Mariah Carey.

"Come on, Draco, darling, you can't sleep here; you've got to take your contact-lenses out," his mother whispered into his ear, and her shining silvery chignon caught the candlelight as he peeked his eyes open. The little diamond droplets dangling from her ears caught the light as well and glittered. She smiled wistfully and helped him out of the chair—groaning and grumbling all the while because he wanted to _sleep_. She tugged his arm and he had to follow; Harry was similarly pouting and resisting the efforts of Sirius to get him out of his chair.

"I'm not tired," Harry yawned obstinately, squirming comfortably in his chair. Draco rubbed his contact-lenses-sore eyes and caught Sirius's eye. _I'm up now, I might as well…_ He and Sirius both grinned, grabbed the back of the sofa and upturned it, sending Potter sprawling onto the floor. Shuffling, and shivering once they exited the drawing-room into the quiet, dark gallery, Draco slowly followed Sirius upstairs at the same pace as Harry, both of them sleep-walking, past several floors and up several sweeping staircases onto galleries visible from the ground-floor, until Sirius showed them to one room that had been recently redecorated: warm dark beige walls were illuminated softly with golden light from the wall-sconces, making the polished wood of the two identical twin sleigh-beds, single-door wardrobes and bedside cabinets glow. One bed was spread with a warm patchwork quilt predominantly made of reds, the other of greens, and Draco's trunk resided at the foot of the green bed. A little doorway gave them access to a suitably spacious en-suite, and Draco shuffled into the bathroom to remove his _Dailies_ contacts. By the time he had changed into his yummy soft cashmere pyjamas and shuffled back into the bedroom, Potter was already curled up under his duvet, peeking owlishly over the top of it as he passed, and his mother was waiting in her embroidered silk kimono-style nightgown, ready to tuck him into bed, smooth his fair hair away from his forehead, pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered; "Goodnight, sweetheart," before going to Potter and doing the same thing. Draco watched his mother pass Sirius wordlessly, with only a hint of a glance between them, and Sirius smiled tiredly.

"Goodnight boys," he smiled. "See you in the morning." He flicked the light off and Draco's vision was suddenly doused with blackness.

He dozed off, and he wondered how long he had been asleep when he woke up to a soft snuffling, like the sound of somebody crying. A faint amber glow emanated from his right; he glanced over to Potter's bed and saw him propped up against his pillows, a leather photograph album open in his lap.

"Potter?" he sighed groggily, eyes sliding closed tiredly. He woke himself up a bit more and propped himself up on his elbows, hugging his pillow to his chest. "What're you doin'?" He heard a soft, choked gasp and watched Potter wipe his eyes hastily, his glasses on top of the album, his chest rising and falling brokenly.

"Nobody's ever…ever tucked me into bed before," he choked softly, wiping his sodden eyes. Draco didn't know what to say in response; the last time his mother had really tucked him into bed was in third year. He hadn't been in bed before eleven since then. But he didn't really think that was what Potter was getting at. He _had no mother_. Draco had been so worried for the last few months about losing his mother; Potter had never known his. Theirs. Draco shivered as he slipped out of bed and sat down beside Potter. Just sat down, and looked at the photographs illuminated by Potter's wand.

"Who are they?" he asked, of the couple pictured in almost every photograph. They smiled and waved unconcernedly up at them.

"Our parents," Potter said hollowly, sniffing. "That's our dad, James Potter. And our mum's name was Lily." _Lily_. It rolled off the tongue. Draco swept his eyes over the photograph of the woman who had given him life, in every sense of the word. Unlike his adoptive-mother, she was a fiery display of colour; her red hair was darker and more lustrous than Ginny's, and in the sunlight of the day in the Hogwarts grounds, coppery lights glinted in her hair. Smiling sweetly, her eyes glowed like burning emeralds, glittering in the sunlight.

"She's got nice hair," he mused, cocking his head to one side._ She was beautiful_. "She's got nice hair, and lovely eyes." He scrutinised his brother's face. His nose was shorter than their father's and his eyes were exactly the shape and colour of their mother's.

"Everyone says I have Mum's eyes," Harry sniffed miserably. "But they say I'm not like Dad."

"What was he like?" Draco asked. Anything was preferable to Lucius Malfoy.

"Sirius and Remus say he used to be cocky and arrogant when he was at school," Harry smiled, showing white teeth inherited in shape and size from their father. It was a nice grin, not like Draco's signature smirk.

"I suppose he's where I get it from," Draco remarked softly, looking over the picture of their father. Harry chuckled softly, a little less miserable-looking when he sat up and closer to him, going through the pages of the album with Draco. "Mum and Dad started going out when they were in seventh-year. After he'd shrunk his ego a bit. He used to play Chaser on the Gryffindor quidditch team."

"He was in Gryffindor?" Draco groaned.

"And Mum was, too," Harry smiled. "Sirius and Lupin both were, as well. They were Dad's best-friends. They called themselves the Marauders, with their _friend_ Peter Pettigrew."

"He turned Death-Eater," Draco said softly. He knew that much; he'd met Pettigrew, knew he was an Animagus, knew his animal-form was disgustingly fitting for him. All Draco knew was that Pettigrew had sold the Potters out to Voldemort. But he didn't know that Pettigrew had been one of his father's best-friends.

"Yes." Harry breathed out heavily through his nostrils, glaring at a photograph of three good-looking teenaged boys with their arms slung around each other, grinning blissfully, the banners of the quidditch pitch flicking in the breeze behind them.

Harry told him the story that had begun in their third year with Sirius's escape from Azkaban, how Harry had found out it hadn't been Sirius who murdered those thirteen people; it had been Pettigrew, who cut his finger off before transforming and escaping. Harry told him that their parents had asked Sirius to be their Secret Keeper when they went into hiding with Harry—at that point, Draco had already been taken away—but he suggested they choose Pettigrew as a foil to keep Voldemort off their tracks.

It was difficult to believe Sirius had aged even a day since the photograph had been taken at their parents' wedding. All three—Sirius, James, Lily—beamed with exquisite bliss at the camera and at each other. Lily's dressrobes fit her figure and her fiery hair was swept up into an elaborate bun, one single white lily perched over her ear.

"I…I think she's beautiful," Draco whispered, and Harry smiled softly as he closed the album and lodged it carefully on his bedside cabinet. Draco was too tired to move, and in any case he was so warm he wouldn't have wanted to, and he fell asleep next to his brother.

* * *

**A.N.**: Hope you all liked it. _Please, please, PLEASE_, hit that big green button down there!!!

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	5. Inauguration

**A.N.**: I'm kind of half-decided about putting Draco together with Hermione (because they are my absolute favourite couple, as evident by my the look of my posted works!) so I'd like to know what you all think about that, or whether you'd prefer him to get with an OC. Until then I'll have him innocently flirting…because let's face it, J.K. was _not_ good to her boys' sex-lives, was she! Anyway, let me know what you'd like to read! _REVIEW!_

**A.N.2**: I realised it was 11 o'clock and I haven't posted anything, so I don't want to disappoint anyone because I promised to upload a chapter before I went on holiday! So here it is. Please make me happy by stockpiling reviews in my email account for when I get back!

* * *

Next morning, he was extremely rudely awoken by two chipper, female voices warbling '_Good morning, good morning! Sunbeams will soon shine through, good morning, my darling, to yooooooooouuuuuuu!!!_' Draco was lodged comfortably against something nice and warm, the duvet heavy on his body, light seeping in above his head where the duvet was tucked up to his hairline, his hand curled over it.

"Fuck off," he grumbled. He was way too comfy to move. The two songbirds burst into giggles and Draco sighed heavily as he sat up, crunching his abdomen, and glowered groggily at Hermione and Ginny, who were both still in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns, although Granger had tamed her hair into two French-plaits like those Patil twins wore.

"Sirius has got breakfast ready," Ginny said brightly, her long, straight hair swinging in a curtain over her shoulder as she bent, tugged the duvet and tried to tug it away. She actually managed to tug Draco right onto the floor because he didn't want to get out of bed or lose the duvet and she was pulling so hard.

"Come on, Draco, your mum says we have to get you up," Hermione sang tauntingly, linking her arms under his to wrench him off the floor. He turned his body into dead-weight so she grunted and almost fell down. God, her breasts felt incredible against him! He had no idea they were so…squidgy, if that was the right word to describe them! He glanced over his shoulder and got an eye-full. He had no idea how to gauge cup-sizes, but she was _stacked_. They were natural, too; she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her flimsy little natural-cotton t-shirt. How had he never noticed she had a figure before?

"Stop gawking, Malfoy. You've seen breasts before," she snapped, hauling him bodily off the floor.

"No I haven't!" Draco exclaimed indignantly. "Do you take me for some kind of man-whore?!" He was sixteen years old, he was a troubled child, he had no friends and the girls in Slytherin looked like the wrong end of a dragon's turd. He was _not_ going around humping anything with two legs and a short skirt.

"What about you and Pansy Parkinson?" Ginny asked interestedly. "Didn't you take her to the Yule Ball?" Draco convulsed uncontrollably. Bad _thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts_. "Have you ever seen her naked?"

"I would rather put _pins_ in my eyes!" Draco declared, hands on his hips and staring at Ginny incredulously. She tried not to smile but ended up emitting a choked giggle and had to duck out of the room.

"Come on! Sirius made a fry-up," Hermione said. "_Harry! Get up!!_" Draco glanced back at the bed from which he'd just been pulled; the dark-haired boy curled up tightly in a ball had reclaimed the duvet and only a tuft of untidy black hair was visible. _OH GOD! I even _sleep_ the same way as him!_

"You want me to get him out of bed?" Draco asked, shooting a grin at Hermione. She smiled and watched, arms folded over her chest, hugging herself for warmth, and shrieked a laugh as Draco gripped the side of the bed-frame and wrenched his arms upwards; the mattress, and Harry atop it, were flung to the floor, and Harry yelled drunkenly as Draco chuckled deeply and Hermione laughed.

"Wha's goin' on?" His brother's slur was muffled by the duvet still wrapped around him.

"Get up, Harry," Draco ordered placidly, wrenching his twin off the floor similarly to how Hermione had struggled with him. God, for a skinny guy, Potter really weighed a lot!

"Room—spinning!" Harry slurred. He looked _really_ pale.

"Overindulged a bit last night, did we?" Draco smirked, as his brother ran for their bathroom. "Open the window! I don't want our room smelling of puke, thank you!" As they heard Harry vomit in the toilet, Draco glanced over at Hermione as he pulled the bathroom-door to, exchanging a grimace.

"Harry doesn't exactly throw himself into it when we have parties," Hermione said gently.

"Bit of a lightweight?"

"Just not much of a drinker," Hermione shrugged. "None of us has really started drinking strong stuff."

"You seem alright." Hermione laughed softly and a faint blush crept up her cheeks.

"Yeah, well, I have an older cousin in university who likes to party," she smiled. "He decided to desensitise me to clubbing early." Putting his own scepticism about what 'university' was aside, he smirked, eyeing her up. She had a fine-looking pair of legs; for pyjamas, she wore her flimsy little tight t-shirt and a thick pair of brown cotton tights, a pair of thick fluffy socks and knitted legwarmers, and her dressing-gown. Despite that, she still managed to look oddly _cute_.

"I'll bet he did," Draco remarked, eyes lingering on her breasts again. She had lovely large swells, perky, and through the flimsy cotton he could kind of see the darker skin surrounding her pert pea-sized nipples.

"Draco, you're staring again," Hermione remarked dryly, crossing her flimsy cotton dressing-gown over her chest and tying the sash around her slender waist. _Damn!_

"Well I can't help it!" he said in mild indignation. "It's not as if you can hide them!" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"It's amazing to me that some boys can actually distinguish a girl by her body-parts," she smirked. "You wouldn't know I'm a girl, the way Ron and Harry act around me."

"Clueless," Draco nodded, and she smirked. "They noticed when you were at the Yule Ball." He'd noticed her, too, but she hadn't had _those_ then! Well, not as big. Her strapless gown at the Yule Ball had been made of what his mother had identified—from a photograph in which Hermione strolled into the frame with Viktor Krum—as organza, a pale-pink, kind of glittery material, with a pale-pink crushed-velvet bow beneath the Empire waist. She had looked very sweet with her hair smoothed and up in a fancy bun, but now she had grown a little taller and grown into a more mature figure.

"Mm," Hermione commented, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "How much did he _drink_ last night? I'm sure it wasn't that much."

"Unless he's been sneaking booze into his cleavage—oh wait! That's _you_!" Draco teased happily. She blushed again and smacked him playfully in the chest. She tutted, rolling her eyes, and opened the door a tiny crack.

"Harry, are you alright?" she asked tenderly. Draco frowned softly, watching her. No one would _ever_ have come to check on him if he was ill. Except his mother, and she wasn't the nicest Healer he'd ever encountered.

"Yes, do you want us to bring you anything? A sausage, so you can bite down on one of those hard little fatty chunks? Or I can get Sirius to make you a poached-egg slightly undercooked, with some of that white, runny stuff that never quite stays on the spoon—" Draco bit his lip, trying not to grin too hard, as he heard his brother groan and vomit again.

"Come down when you're ready, Harry; I'll make you some toast," Hermione said gently, closing the bathroom-door. "You're horrible," she accused, hands on her waist, eyes narrowed at him. Draco laughed.

"Come on, that was a little bit funny—just a _little bit_," he smiled, and she caved, biting her lip. "Come on, let's go and have some breakfast." He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her to the bedroom-door. Everything on the way downstairs looked different in the brilliant white winter sunlight reflected off the foot of snow that had fallen outside. Sirius's snowmen were in a poor way, half-buried in the snow.

"And we're predicted _more!_" Sirius exclaimed gleefully, dancing around the kitchen with frying-pans and toast-racks, checking on a fresh batch of mince-pies as Kreacher tottered around, happily refilling teacups. It was creepy—the last time Draco had seen him, Kreacher had been, well…a creepy gross thing. Now his white ear-hair had been fluffed, his toga was miraculously clean and a locket gleamed on his chest. [A.N.: I've decided Dumbledore has already found the Slytherin locket in Grimmauld Place and destroyed it with Ron's help using the sword, except without that lame, long-ass camping trip!] He practically drooled over Narcissa's velvet dressing-gown as she glided around the kitchen helping Sirius cook, trailing her like a loyal little puppy. Except a really hideous one who'd had a run-in with Pansy Parkinson.

"Where's Harry?" Sirius asked, glancing around the table and counting heads. Lupin had not returned from wherever he'd disappeared last night, but Tonks stopped in to drop a message for the Order, and today her hair was what Hermione called 'Strepsil-pink' rather than brilliant bubblegum.

"He's upstairs re-examining dinner," Draco remarked, smiling as Hermione offered him the quidditch-section of the _Daily Prophet_. He hadn't taken the time to read the paper in ages. Not that it was anything but a load of rubbish! Only the quidditch-section was really worth reading.

"Draco, darling, don't be disgusting," his mother reprimanded softly, serving him and Hermione cheesy scrambled-eggs.

"I'll put aside some plain toast and Puking Pastilles, then," Sirius smirked. "My Harry, hung-over. I never thought I'd live to see the day." He used the hem of his 'Kiss the Cook' apron to dry an imaginary tear.

"Well, considering what _you_ used to do when he was his age, I'm very proud this is his first hangover," Narcissa remarked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, the lock on the liquor cabinet wasn't _just_ for Great-Uncle Regulus, darling," Narcissa remarked breezily with a supercilious smile.

"I always knew Bella was a bit high-strung," Sirius sighed heavily, making his face a mask of solemnity. Narcissa glared at him and Draco focused on his bacon and baked-beans and the fried potato rösti Sirius served up next.

"So, what is everyone doing today?" Narcissa asked.

"Homework," Sirius remarked before anyone could speak up through mouthfuls of full English cooked-breakfast. Ron made a guttural moan and looked longingly from his plate to the window, at the snow billowing down outside. "You're going to finish your homework so you can frolic in the snow with me later."

"You always did love frolicking," Narcissa sighed, shaking her head.

"Hey—it was the only time of year my mother would let me get as dirty as I wanted and not get punished for it," Sirius remarked.

"If I recall one year you decided to roll in every single puddle of melted sludge, just for that reason," Narcissa smirked.

"And I almost got hypothermia," Sirius sighed. Draco laughed softly and ate his way through his breakfast, reading the newspaper cover-to-cover, trading leaves with Hermione.

"Are you sure Harry is alright, darling?" Narcissa asked him; Draco glanced up, a bit of bacon sticking out of his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.

"He was breathing," he remarked, coughing.

"Morning Harry! Wow! You look like you've been transfigured into a rag. Or have you been spending too much free-time with Mundungus? Please don't make me admit to Molly he's a bad influence," Sirius pleaded playfully. "She'll never let me live it down." Harry shuffled, eyes squinted shut behind his glasses, feeling his way around the room to the table, one hand to his head.

"Eggs?" Draco asked, pushing his half-empty plate towards Harry. Harry shuddered, clapping a hand over his nose and mouth.

"Here, eat this," Sirius sighed, putting half a Puking Pastille and a glass of water in front of Harry with a plate of dry toast and a cup of tea. "You'll feel better—_trust me_." Remarkably, Harry did as he was told. Draco never took his medicine quietly.

"Draco, my darling, Professor Snape will be stopping by later this afternoon to bring by a potion," Narcissa said, putting her hands on Draco's shoulders.

"What for?" Draco asked, glancing up.

"To remove the charms and reverse the potions we gave you when you were a baby," Narcissa sighed. "To how you should have looked like." Draco grimaced up at her.

"Do I have to take it?" he asked quietly. His mother cupped his face and pressed a kiss to his cheeks. He grumbled, wiping them away with his sleeve, but when Harry caught his eye with that lost-puppy look in his eyes, Draco stopped. _Oh yeah_…Harry had never been kissed affectionately by his mother. So Draco appreciated it a lot more when his mother ran her fingers through his hair, rumpling it playfully. Even her ordering him upstairs into the schoolroom with the others to do his homework was a cherished threat.

The schoolroom was on the second-floor, lined with glass-fronted cabinets full of books and magical equipment. It looked like it hadn't been used in over twenty years—in actual fact it was more like sixteen. Hermione took charge in here, ordering Ron to get this and that book and Ginny to brew a pot of tea to keep them going through until lunch.

Draco folded his origami fortune-teller and spent an hour colouring the four outer panels, decorating them and the numbered ones, and writing and depicting with moving stick-figures different sexual positions on the insides.

"Hey, Hermione," he whispered. Harry and Ron were trying to practice their nonverbal duelling and Ginny was screeching over the unfairness that was life, trying to get through a Transfiguration essay. Hermione was the only one actually _doing_ anything; she was scribbling with the most insanely tiny writing, an Ancient Runes textbook open, heavily underlined and highlighted. "Hermione."

"What?" Hermione huffed irritably.

"What's your favourite colour?" Draco asked. Hermione glanced up, frowning bemusedly. She rolled her eyes at the fortune-teller.

"Pink," she said quietly. _Interesting…she doesn't look like a pink kind of girl_, Draco thought, eyeing her up. They were all still in their pyjamas, and hers were no-nonsense natural cottons. _P-I-N-K_, he counted.

"Pick a number," he smiled. She chose six. And then she chose nine. _69_…He flicked the inside fold open and smirked. "Ah, your favourite sexual position is the Head Game." She laughed out-loud and Draco smirked; shooting him a playfully annoyed glance, she snatched the fortune-catcher away and glanced at the inside folds before crumpling it and throwing it into the wastepaper basket, which belched appreciatively.

"I worked hard on that!"

"You're being lazy. You can borrow my Arithmancy book and read the chapter Vector assigned us."

"Have fun with that," Draco smirked tauntingly, pushing the Arithmancy book Hermione had passed to him away.

"Oh my goodness!" Hermione gasped softly, propping her head on her hand, watching him with her lips slightly parted. "That's it, isn't it! That's why your results are always so poor! You can't read. You're one of those children, aren't you, who just slipped through the cracks."

"I can read, fool!" Draco said indignantly. He laughed at her smirk. "I just choose not to." The schoolroom door burst open and Sirius appeared, pouting.

"I want someone to play with," he pouted childishly. "Moony isn't back yet and I'm _bored_."

"Draco won't do his homework!" Ginny remarked with an exasperated huff as she flung her textbook across the room, running her hands over her face and through her hair and trailing black ink over both.

"I'm _bored_!" Sirius whined.

"Go and annoy my mother," Draco suggested nonchalantly. Sirius snapped his fingers, his face lighting up with a wonderful beaming grin.

"_CISSY!!!!_" they heard him bellow tauntingly down the corridor, and Draco got an idea.

"Is there a library in this house?" he asked nonchalantly. "I think I'll go and see if they've got a copy of our Arithmancy book. Looks like you're almost finished with that essay."

"It's upstairs, at the end of the corridor; double-doors," Hermione said, turning back to her writing. He didn't know how long he was in the library—he'd taken into account the sweeping Maplewood balcony that soared over the opposite side of the room, the tiled fireplace and the cosy-corners beneath, the many squashy armchairs and little occasional tables, stacks and stacks of books that didn't fit into the bookcases that went up to the two-storeys-high ceiling—and turned quickly to sorting through the hundreds of books. _No wonder she knows this place is here_, Draco thought to himself. He ran his fingers over the crumbling gold and silver lettering on the spines of old leather and cloth-bound books and was somewhat irked by the titles of some of the books—they were some of the same that belonged in the secret room underneath the drawing-room at home. His father had locked him in the attic once when he'd found Draco reading one of the books. He'd been eight, and he'd had to sleep with all the lamps in his room on for three nights in a row because he was so terrified about Inferi coming to kill him. Some of the subjects of the books actually looked quite interesting; pureblood genealogy, for one thing, was always interesting to read about. Pureblooded families had longer histories than the Muggle royal families.

_Fanny Hill, Fanny Hill…where is Fanny Hill?_ He sighed heavily and frowned as he reached the fictional literature section, which was oddly heavy on Muggle culture. All the Classical works that no doubt Hermione knew cover-to-cover. He grinned, seeing a cloth-bound book with _Fanny Hill_ lettered in gold on the spine. He slipped it from its place and flipped it open, raising his eyebrows with a smirk as he looked through the illustrations. _Well…Hermione!_

"Hermione, I think I know why you love reading so much," Draco smirked, sauntering back into the schoolroom; Harry and Ron had thrown themselves to the table to start on their Defensive theory essays and Ginny had a splodge of ink on the wing of her nose. He perched on the arm of Hermione's chair and placed the book down to the illustration marked '_The Ceremonial of Fanny's Inauguration_'. Hermione slammed the book shut before anyone else could look at the picture, and Draco _giggled_ as she proceeded to beat him over the head with the book. This kind of tormenting people was fun!

"_LUNCH_!!!!" Sirius roared up the stairs. Harry and Ron barely beat Draco to the door; Ginny giggled her head off on the floor with tears rolling down her cheeks at Hermione's flushed face. Draco fought Ron through the door to the kitchen and they almost sent Professor Snape flying as he turned to the stairs. Fred and George were sitting in the kitchen, ankles crossed on the table, and they both laughed unkindly with Sirius as Snape righted himself, shot them both a glare, and Draco tried not to smirk too much as he sank down into a chair beside his mother. She shot him a disapproving look and as the girls took their places opposite him, she placed a large, steaming goblet full of what looked like twice-regurgitated lumpy green custard. Draco instinctively clamped his mouth shut.

"Severus says you must take this on top of a good meal," Narcissa said quietly. Draco eyed the goblet (they all did, all secretly glad they didn't have to take the 'medicine') as Sirius ladled thick, hearty minestrone soup into large bowls, fresh-baked bread steaming enticingly in covered baskets. "And after lunch, everybody, you're going to get showered and dressed. The other Order members will be arriving for the meeting this evening." Narcissa shot Sirius a disapproving look; he still wore baggy plaid-cotton trousers, barefoot, with a big black jumper with a golden phoenix splayed across the chest, his hair only slightly, irritatingly so, tousled, as if he'd just run his hands frustratedly through it, not slept twelve hours.

"Mother, do I _have_ to drink _that_?" Draco asked, eating his way through a second bowl of soup, thinking that if he just kept eating he wouldn't have the opportunity to be force-fed that potion. His mother lifted the goblet in her hand, standing tall and threatening over him. He set his spoon down and clamped his mouth shut, clenching his teeth together. He knew his mother's tactics.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW TO THIS BEFORE REVIWING ON THE NEXT CHAPTER!!!!! Let me know what you think about a romantic twist for Draco. And I'm up for suggestions about changing Draco's 'Henry' name to something else. Although I was going to amuse myself in calling him 'Hen' or 'Henny' like Charles does in _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ about his neurotic ex-girlfriend…Anywho!

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	6. Not Identical

**A.N.**: Okay, the much-longed-for change-of-appearance!!!! Hope you like!

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"Draco, you must drink this. It is for your own good," Narcissa said impatiently.

"It looks like _Bubotuba puss_," Hermione remarked disgustedly, wrinkling her nose, clapping her hand over it and jerking away as she sniffed at the goblet. Draco jumped, yelling, as somebody pounced on him from behind; he found himself choking, spluttering that utterly acidic, burning potion that was like swallowing double-thickness cold custard only as hot as firewhiskey and as repellent as Skelegrow.

"Swallow it, Draco," his mother commanded softly, as Draco convulsed involuntarily and tried not to heave. He felt absolutely vile.

"That is just _nasty_," Ron remarked, and George was pale and looked ill.

"Low-blow, Sirius," Fred remarked, frowning behind Draco. "Are you sure the Sorting Hat didn't consider you for Slytherin like the rest of your family?"

"Not even for a second," Sirius remarked. "Sorry, Draco, but you had to take it one way or the other." A hand clapped down on Draco's shoulder as he chugged down glass upon glass of safe _water_. His stomach was roiling and cramping up, utterly painful, and he didn't think orange-juice or Butterbeer would agree.

"I don't feel very well," he whimpered, and he shuffled pathetically out of the kitchen and back upstairs, to Harry's shouts of "Draco, are you alright?" He closed the bedroom door behind him, panting, feeling all choked up around the throat, his stomach unable to settle, and he locked the bathroom door behind him as he bolted to the toilet.

But he didn't throw-up. He couldn't do it; he sank to the cool marble floor of the bathroom, his back against the wonderfully cool bathtub, unable to stop shivering violently. He couldn't remember feeling this ill since he'd had the flu in fourth year, and only when ill could he ever appreciate the feeling of being ill. He stripped his dressing-gown off and his t-shirt, overheating and sweaty, resting his bare back against the porcelain, lolling near the loo just in case his stomach decided what it was going to do, his vision slightly off-kilter because he wasn't focusing and also he hadn't put his contacts in this morning.

"Draco, you alright?" a soft voice asked through the door. It was Harry.

"_No_," Draco whimpered, passing a trembling hand over his face. He gulped and curled up, resting his cheek against the lip of the bath, closing his eyes.

"Do you want me to come in?" Harry asked quietly.

"_No_," Draco whimpered again. He had never exactly been the best patient. He liked to suffer alone. That way, he always got the sympathy he wanted.

"Sirius says take a shower, it might make you feel better," Harry said gently.

"_Okay_," Draco sniffled. He was trembling all over his body as he used his arms to push himself off the floor, shaky on his legs. It was spreading, now; the cramps in his stomach had started to extend up and down his body, making it almost unbearably painful to climb into the bathtub, even to bend slightly to adjust the water to the very hottest temperature, lifting his arms to wash his hair. Every muscle felt like it was being pulled on a rack and hot-irons were being branded onto the sinews; if it was possible for bones to be stretched, that felt like it was happening. His shoulders and arms knotted painfully and his face felt like it was on fire. He grappled with the water-knobs and shot ice-water from the shower-head. He didn't even feel it, although it cooled his face considerably.

The first thing he noticed was the hair on his arms; it was darker. So was the hair beginning just below his bellybutton, trailing downwards to—_everything changes_! _Everything_ was expanding in some way. And his entire body felt…heavier. Not his own. His shoulders were painfully stretched and maybe they were broader, his arms had more muscle-tone to them, and he felt as though this was probably why Crabbe and Goyle moved so sluggishly. Was his head brushing the shower-head? He swore he'd put it up as high as it would go, because he was already tall.

As what happens when people recover from illness, Draco could not remember how much it had hurt when suddenly everything stopped. His shoulders relaxed, he arched his back, stretching it a little luxuriously as if he had been sleeping, ran his hands through his hair, squeezing the water out as he pushed the curtain aside and stepped out of the bath, reaching for a towel. _That_ was the point at which his stomach decided to reject the potion his mother and Sirius had tricked him nastily into being force-fed, and as he knelt with the towel wrapped around his waist, vomiting into the toilet, dark hair fell into his forehead and brushed into his eyes as he bent his head. He wiped his mouth on a bit of toilet-paper and flushed the toilet, reaching lethargically for his dressing-gown and tugging it on over his shivering body. He went and washed his hands, intent on putting his contacts in, and glanced into the mirror.

And yelled a roar of fright and complete mortification, backing away. A stranger yelled back at him.

The stranger's jaw was strong, not pointy; his cheekbones were still high, and his eyes were intense—hazel; soft olive-green, surrounded by coffee-brown, the irises ringed with gold flecks—wreathed with lovely dark lashes. His hair was very dark, almost black, but chestnut and copper highlights glinted in the light from the amber wall-sconces, and was longer than Harry's. His hair reached just about to his shoulders, a little shorter in the front so it didn't irritate the face, parted at the side where it had fallen after he'd towelled it dry and just casually flicked back from the handsome face. His skin took on more of a golden glow than pure marble, and he was a lot more muscularly built. He was a combination of Lily and James; not just Lily's eyes in James's body. A compliment to both of them. In looks.

"Draco." The door opened and Draco snapped his dressing-gown closed. His hair dripped onto his robe and he shivered as cold water slid down his neck. He stared at Harry, and Harry gaped back, utterly stunned. He closed the door behind him and stared at Draco's face. They were exactly the same height and build, only Draco had managed to get the genes for tidy hair and eyebrows. They had the same mouth, though, the same straight white teeth.

"You look like…"

"I look like our parents," Draco said hoarsely, and he jumped, stunned. Even his _voice_ had changed. Deeper, more wholesome. He was strapped in somebody else's body, and it wasn't just a temporary Polyjuice Potion, either. This was real, and Draco was shit-scared because of that fact. He turned back to the mirror, panting, disbelieving. Harry came to stand right beside him. Draco had nicer hair, yes, but Harry had _those eyes_. They were the same build; same height, same broad shoulders, muscular chests from quidditch practices…Draco didn't really want to know the length to which their similarities went.

"You look like _both_ of them," Harry said, almost wistfully, with a tiny sigh. "Dad's eyes weren't as intense." Draco nodded numbly, staring open-mouthed at his reflection. He was handsome; he could say that for himself. _Very_ handsome. He was a more refined version of Harry.

"Come _on_, Draco!" someone shouted impatiently from the bedroom. Draco glanced over his shoulder at the door; it was Hermione.

"Yeah, come on out of the closet, boys. We won't love you any less for what you are," one of the twins shouted.

"Bad pun, Fred," George sighed.

"Malfoy—if you don't open the door I'm going to kick it down and _drag_ you out!" Ron shouted angrily through the door. Harry glanced at Draco and gave him a look that was at once apologetic and annoyed. Draco quickly stooped to pull on his pyjama-bottoms under his dressing-gown and he ran his hand over his hair, grasping the doorknob firmly in his hand. Harry gave him an encouraging smile, leaning against the wall beside him.

Draco wrenched the door open and shouted loudly in pain _again_ as Ron's black leather steel-capped boot got lodged powerfully in his crotch.

"_FUCK_!!!" He fell to the floor, clutching the damaged goods, completely winded, pressing his forehead to the floor as he bit back a string of curses.

"Oh—sorry Har—_Malfoy_! Er—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I mean, I didn't think…d'you want me to get Sirius?"

"Going…kill…_you_," Draco managed to growl semi-threateningly, as he felt intensely insulted as he heard Hermione and Ginny shrieking with uncontrollable giggles, lolling over his bed as he glared up through bleary eyes.

"What did you go and do that for, Ron? One castrated Malfoy isn't enough?" George said disdainfully, kneeling down beside Draco and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Like father, like son, eh Draco?" Fred smirked, kneeling on his other side.

"IF you ask me, Ron did us all a favour, I mean—one Potter is worth more trouble than seven Weasleys. Now we've got _two _Potters; that'll be like…_fourteen_ Weasleys," George said thoughtfully.

"I'll be watching you and Dean _very_ carefully, Ginny," Fred warned sharply. "We don't want any more Weasleys running about in nappies for a few years." Draco rolled onto his side, teeth gritted. _FUCKING HELL!!!!_

"Mum's finally let you stop wearing them, then, Fred?" Ginny remarked, and she and Hermione collapsed with another fit of hysterical giggles.

"Very funny—Let's get _you _up," Fred said, and he and George each took a side and wrenched Draco off the floor with an arm under each shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Ron said guiltily, wincing slightly as Draco was lowered tentatively onto his bed—which Hermione hadn't seen fit to vacate, incapacitated by giggles. "Are you alright?"

"No, you fucking well _paralysed_ me!!!" Draco shouted. He stared again; his voice just wasn't _his _anymore.

"What do you want him to do?" Hermione giggled, tears sliding freely down her cheeks, a lovely rosy flush to her skin, her straight white teeth brilliantly put on show. "Kiss it better?" Ginny was paralysed with silent laughter as her entire body curled up.

"No, but would _you _mind?" Draco asked sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes.

"I didn't even kick you that hard," Ron claimed vehemently.

"You're wearing _steel-capped boots_!" Draco shouted disbelievingly.

"Er—are any of you going to stop laughing and shouting long enough to notice?" Harry's voice came from the bathroom-door, where he stood draped, frowning in annoyance with his arms folded tight over his chest. He looked pointedly at Draco, who had stretched out luxuriously on his bed, his head against Hermione's soft breasts as she smoothed his new dark hair from his forehead. It felt so good. He'd never lain like this before. Except with Pansy, and his head was in her lap and that was completely different to having his head cushioned by two very voluptuous breasts. She smelled nice, too, like pomegranates. He just let his eyes closed, afraid the room would go all hazy again because he wasn't wearing contacts or his glasses.

"Yeah—blimey! You can really see it now! I mean, not that you could even get an idea of it before," George said, sounding stunned. "He's not identical, though." He and Fred exchanged a smug smirk.

"Definitely brothers, though," Fred said softly.

"Definitely _Potters_," Ginny sighed.

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**A.N.**: REVIEWS EQUALS UPDATES!!!!

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	7. ADOPTION NOTIFICATION

**Adoption Notification**

Due to the sheer number of stories accumulating on my profile-page, and the lack of interest I have in continuing some of them, I am therefore sorting out my profile, and if not deleting my stories, putting them up for adoption; this story is one of them. If you'd like to take on this story to finish it, please let me know. My Private Messaging service is available on my profile.

Sorry for disappointing you if you particularly loved this story.

Sincerely,

mellowenglishgal

or, Hannah


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